


Complementary Colours

by FinAmour, unicornpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Art Courses, BAMF John Watson, Bee flirting, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, It’s not explicit but the kissing is really hot, Jealous John, John Speaks French Too, Kissing, Love/Hate, M/M, Mutual Pining, OMG can you believe Sherlock Holmes invented softness, Painting, Pining, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Speaks French, Sherlock learning how to love, Slow Burn, UST, Unilock, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-05-08 18:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14699769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe
Summary: Complementary coloursnoun.: pairs of colours that contrast with each other more than any other colour, and when placed side-by-side make each other look brighter.





	1. In Which the Role of Cupid Is Played by an Art Appreciation Class

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/) for being an amazing beta, and to [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittiehill/) for doing some awesome Brit picking!
> 
> All of the hilarious and accurate chapter titles were given to us by the delightful [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/)! Thank you! ♥️

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Probably, John Watson feels a bit too strongly on the subject of Sherlock Holmes._

Probably, John Watson feels a bit too strongly on the subject of Sherlock Holmes.

Probably, the blood in John’s veins shouldn’t be boiling whenever the brilliant idiot swans into organic chemistry—coffee (black, two sugars) in one hand, iPhone costing more than John’s total monthly rent in the other—two minutes before passing (with flying colours) a test he didn’t study for at all.

Probably, John shouldn’t want to wrap his fingers around that _skinny little neck_ each time he finds himself in class silently, subtly watching Sherlock Holmes. Watching as he kicks his feet up on his desk, scrolling through his phone as though molecular biology were a piece of cake. Watching as he ignores the attempts of any of his peers to talk to him, ignores the lecture, ignores the rules, ignores the _world_. Just as he has done every single day since the very first time John watched him.

John doesn’t mean to _watch_ Sherlock so much. It’s just that it’s sort of difficult _not_ to. Each and every time the bastard enters a room of people, he has an uncanny ability to command and hold their attention. It’s as though he’s a gift from the gods of some mystical realm, sent down to blight the humble mortals of this earth with his blinding beauty; as though he is a god himself, tall and beautiful and brilliant, and mere human beings are incapable of looking away from him.

Sherlock might be more bearable, John thinks, if he at least weren’t such an utter tosser about his good looks and intellect. Sure, he may have the cheekbones of a runway model and the skin of a greek god. And sure, he may be a genius. But he’s a lazy, opportunistic genius, who often uses his good looks to get what he wants. And all that shouldn’t count, not _really._

One thing is absolutely certain: Sherlock Holmes does _not_ deserve to be at the top of his graduating class—to win the scholarship that _John_ deserves. A scholarship which would help John go to graduate school, something he couldn’t otherwise afford. Because Sherlock Holmes hasn’t _truly_ worked for it, not like John has. He’s just—just—just biologically predisposed to achieve it.

And the bastard knows it, too. It’s in the way he talks, walks, smiles, and drinks his pretentious, fancy coffee. Arse.    

Probably, John should just forget that Sherlock Holmes exists, and go back to studying his brain into a pile of goop. Then, once John has overtaken Sherlock as top of the class, once he’s proven _himself_ to be the most deserving— _then_ , maybe the cold, hard reality will set in. And perhaps, _then,_ that posh arsehole will realise that while money, charm, and good looks may take you to the top—it takes sheer fucking _work_ to stay there.

**********

_John Watson. Ugggggggh. John Watson. Ugh. UGH._

The name is a powerful deluge that floods Sherlock’s tormented mind beneath a hovering dark storm cloud of indignation.

It’s taking up an alarming amount of space for such useless, trivial data, which makes all of this so much _worse_. Sherlock’s mind is a palace, after all, exclusively reserved for important things, such as _formulas,_ and _theorems,_ and the pollination habits of the North American honeybee.

And _John Watson_ —UGH—with his downy soft hair and his silly infectious laugh—was definitely, _definitely_ not invited.

John Watson, who is training to be a _doctor,_ though in all likelihood solely to increase the chances of— “Getting a leg over?” “Shagging?”— Blah blah blah, achieving sexual intercourse, et cetera et cetera.

Irene sometimes refers to John as “Three Campuses Watson”, because, as legend would have it, he’s got a girlfriend from at least one university in each of the UK mainland home nations. Of course, Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to the whos and whens and wheres. But he finds it somewhat peculiar, given that John is a bit awkward and compact, and has the intoxicating personality of a Saint Bernard.

One might theorise that it’s to do with John’s heavy-lashed eyelids, outlining irises as blue and brilliant as the ocean in the swelter of summer heat. But these are the types of details that Sherlock, in all his twenty years, has never especially been one to notice. And if for some blasphemous reason he were to notice these things, it would definitely, _definitely_ not be on John Watson.

So preoccupied is Sherlock with these unpleasant thoughts that he doesn’t notice himself nearly plowing over Irene while en route to his next lecture.

“Well, _hello,_ Gorgeous,” Irene purrs as she reaches out to grab his arm. “You’d best watch out where you’re going. It wouldn’t fare well for either of us if you broke my nose!”

Sherlock’s thoughts reel back in with the piercing sensation of Irene’s well-manicured nails, digging at his arm through the thick wool of his coat. He pauses, looking up at her as she brushes a wisp of silky black hair from her brow. Cocking one hip to the side, she folds her arms over her chest, her porcelain features assembling into an expectant look as she waits for Sherlock to speak.

Normally, when they run into one another on campus, the two have a million things to discuss— Irene’s theories on which scandalous acts their classmates have been partaking in, Sherlock’s plans to seek revenge against the daily idiot, mutual methods on how to overtake the world—standard topics of discourse between two close friends.

But today, Sherlock has just one thing to say.

“John Watson,” he hisses, his eyes narrowing with rage, his tongue dragging at the “T”.

“Oh? John Watson, hmm?” Irene grins, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, which is _entirely_ the wrong reaction. “What about him?”

“I _hate_ him,” Sherlock replies, staring coldly ahead. “And because you are my best friend, you are going to hate him with me.”

Irene leans closer to Sherlock with piqued curiosity. “Ooooh,” she exhales. “Sounds fun. Tell me more.” 

**********

_The day before:_

“Art appreciation, Mike. What the bleeding _hell.”_

John Watson’s flatmate, Mike Stamford—round, bespectacled, and already thinning at the temples, even as young as he is—gives John a commiserating look, but not a particularly sympathetic one. “What can I say, mate.” He shrugs and eats a crisp, generally behaving as if they aren’t currently discussing John’s fate in hell. “You waited too long to sign up.”

John doesn’t bother to argue, because it’s true. He’d needed to enrol in an elective course in order to qualify for the Martha L. Hudson Study Abroad Scholarship, a requirement presented to the students applying just a few weeks before this term had started. Scrambling, and hating literally every option presented to him (Theatre—um, no. Music—he’s never displayed even one iota of talent. Art—merciful heavens), he’d simply put it off and put it off and put it off until the only thing he could sign up for had been art appreciation.

_Art Appreciation._

“It’s gonna be terrible.”

Mike ruminates, crunching his crisps. “Probably,” he finally agrees.

“Fuck me.”

“No thanks, mate.”

The room descends into a silence, Mike watching as John wrestles with the sheets that he’s trying to fit onto his bed.

“Well,” Mike says presently, once John has flopped back down onto his mattress, covered in a triumphant sweat, “at least you’re at the top of the graduating class.”

John’s skin feels tight. “No, I’m not,” he snaps, feeling bad about it even as the words come out of his mouth. “Obviously, I’m not, Mike. Pretty sure that crown goes to His Glorious Reigning Majesty Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh.” Mike sets the crisps on John’s desk and swivels a bit in John’s chair, his eyebrows climbing upward to his (thinning) hairline. “You haven’t heard?”

John sits up slowly, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows onto his knees. “Heard… what, exactly?”

Mike’s face breaks into a grin, his round cheeks puffing almost comically. “You’re His Glorious Reigning Majesty now, Johnny. You’ve taken that bastard Holmes’ place. You’re the front-runner for the Hudson Scholarship.”

“Michael Stamford,” John says, his tone calm. “If you’re fucking with me at all—even the tiniest bit—I’d just like to remind you that I know several different ways to kill a man and make it look like a complete accident.”

Mike grins at him, remarkably affable in the face of a death threat. “He burned down that lab last term, you remember? People were pissed off. Not even scary big brother could save his arse after that one. Knocked him down a few points, which is lucky for you, isn’t it? I mean, you’re just ahead by a bit, but you’re _ahead.”_

John feels like flying. John feels like opening the window and sticking his head out and shouting down to the whole campus that he, John Hamish Watson, is at the top of his class. _Not_ Sherlock Sodding Holmes.

And by god, John plans on staying there.  
  
**********

“There’s been a mistake,” Sherlock urgently declares on the morning of January fifteenth. Whisking into the suite of the Dean, he nearly smashes down the door with the sheer force of his petulance.

“Mister Holmes.” The Dean’s secretary almost drops her phone receiver mid-conversation. “Mister Holmes, I’m afraid the Dean is unavailable at the moment, as it’s the first day of the new term, and—”

“Hush, Margaret—” Sherlock says, strolling past the secretary, swiftly lifting his hand to block her words from reaching him. Deafened by the sound of his own vexation, he ignores her protests and barges into the office of the Dean, relishing the slam of the door behind him.

The Dean unaffectedly glances up from his desk, as if he had been expecting Sherlock to arrive, and this annoys Sherlock more than he cares to admit.

“Art appreciation? _Art appreciation?”_ Sherlock says. His tone is shrill, different than his usual baritone, and he’s annoyed by that, too.

Everything is annoying.

Especially Margaret, who insists on trailing in behind him like she can do anything to keep him out. Casting an apologetic look at the Dean, she mutters something about being _sorry_ and _“I tried to keep—”_ and _“he was just—”_

“It’s fine, Margaret,” the Dean drawls in a voice like rancid honey as he waves her off and regards Sherlock with an air of even-tempered haughtiness.

“Sit,” the Dean instructs, gesturing to the leather chair in front of him. Sherlock plunks himself into it.

“My schedule must be altered this very instant,” Sherlock says, attempting to even out his voice.

“Must it?” The Dean sets his hands onto his desk, folding one over another.

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth. “It must.”

The Dean tucks his chin, pressing his lips into a thin line. “As I presume you are aware, the likelihood of getting into the graduate school of your choice is somewhat dependent upon your completion of an elective course—especially given your...special circumstances.”

Sherlock taps his fingertips on the wooden armrests of his chair in an aggressive rhythm. “This university is supposedly world-renowned for its course selection. Please, put me in another.”

The Dean consults the enormous computer sitting before him, even though Sherlock _knows_ he doesn’t have to. There is silence in the office as he clicks on the keyboard serenely. “Hmm. As of today, there is one remaining spot in the didgeridoo choir.”

Sherlock reels back in his chair, crinkling his nose with disgust. “Didgeridoo… choir?”

“You can enrol right now, if you wish.”

Sherlock barely tamps down the urge to throw something at the Dean’s fat little head.

“Do you offer any other options?”

“Of course we do.” The Dean smiles cherubically at Sherlock, inclining his head slightly to the right. “As you said, we provide a myriad of magnificent elective courses here.”

“Oh.” Sherlock pauses his tapping, the fingers of his left hand lifted in midair. “Good.”

“We can’t allow you to enrol in any of them, though.”

“What do you _mean_ you can’t allow me to enrol?” Sherlock clenches his hands into fists, his fingernails leaving little half-moons of pain on his palms.

“The deadline to enrol in courses was five PM on the twelfth of January,” the Dean calmly explains. “It appears that, as of four-thirty, you were not enrolled. So, with my permission, your advisor signed you up for the art course.”

Sherlock flares his nostrils and squeezes his eyes shut before letting them fly open again, solely so that he can peer at the Dean in the most venomous manner possible. “How could they do that? Can they do that without telling me first? I don’t believe they can do—”

“Apparently, the advisor called and e-mailed regarding your enrolment on no less than a half dozen occasions, _and_ your advisor’s assistant personally visited your suite to speak with you about it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock exhales quietly, resuming the furious tapping of his fingers.

Sherlock never answers his door. Or e-mails. Or phone calls. He tends to avidly avoid any activity that involves human contact of any kind, in fact, unless that human is dead and lying on a table in a laboratory.

“So you see where the issues lies,” the Dean says. “You waited too long, and now there is simply no space left in any other course.”

“I’m at the top of my graduating class,” Sherlock boasts with full confidence; that is one thing of which he holds onto with absolute certainty. “Surely they will make an exception for _me.”_

The Dean eyes Sherlock with suspicious hauteur. “Oh.” He clears his throat delicately. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

Sherlock discreetly wrinkles his nose in confusion. “Heard? Heard what?”

“You are no longer at the top of your class.” 

There is a beat of absolute, earth-shattering silence.

“P—” Sherlock coughs, choking on his words. “Pardon?”

The Dean touches the tips of all ten fingers together and places them just under his chin, eyebrows arched, smug look of satisfaction on his face. “Sherlock,” he says slowly, his words strangely reverent, as if he’s sharing information that he holds incredibly close to his heart. “As of the end of the previous term, that spot has been occupied by John Watson.”

“John Watson.” It echoes in Sherlock’s head as he mouths the name silently. John Watson? _John Watson?_

Sherlock can feel his mouth hanging open in shock at this revelation, but for some reason he can’t do anything to close it again. “How on Earth has _he_ usurped me as top of the class? Doesn’t he study something completely pointless? Astronomy? Psychology? Dentistry?”

“He’s studying medicine,” the Dean says, voice deadpan. “He plans to become a doctor.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and slumps down in his chair. He crosses his arms over his chest in a knot. “Waste of time,” he says. “How is _he_ ahead of _me?”_

The Dean narrows his eyes at Sherlock. “Need I remind you of the repercussions you are facing due to last term’s… incident?”

 _“It was an experiment for a course project!”_ Sherlock’s voice becomes shrill again as he slams his heels into the floor with a thud.

“You burned down one of the university’s most cherished laboratories,” drawls the Dean with a syrupy tilt to his head. “It’s a wonder you were only put on partial academic probation.”

“It’s hardly my fault that the idiot professor did not calculate the correct ratio of sulphur—or that the building is not up to fire code,” Sherlock mutters.

“In any case,” the Dean says. “Your marks are slightly trailing behind Mister Watson’s. So I suggest you attend the art course and do your best if you plan to continue your studies.”

Sherlock huffs. “I’m a student of physics and chemistry. I’ve been trained to appreciate the variation theorem, atomic structure, and the speed at which albumen diffuses. I do _not_ need to learn eight separate terms for the colour orange, nor how to spew the blueprint of my innermost thoughts onto _canvas_. What am I going to _do_ in an art appreciation course?” he whines in his most adult-sounding voice.

The Dean smiles so tightly that his thin lips all but disappear. “Presumably, Baby Brother, you will learn to appreciate art.”

**********

John slumps down in his chair and tries his best not to gouge out his own eyeballs with the pencil he’s holding.

It’s the first day of his last term of uni and here he is, stuck in a bloody art course with none of his friends and a professor that looks like he should be modelling for fucking Leonardo da Vinci.

The thought that he’s currently the top of the whole graduating class only assuages his melancholia very slightly.

**********

Sherlock pauses abruptly before the glass doors of the art building, meticulously studying his own reflection. Already eighteen minutes late to his first art appreciation course, Sherlock presumes that he will need to use his natural assets to their fullest if he wishes to start the term off in his professor’s good graces.

Fortunately, he knows exactly how to maximise their impact.

He ruffles his fingers through his curls, evoking the “serendipitously wind-blown” effect that his admirers seem to find so desirable. He folds up the collar of his sturdy black coat to cradle the sides of his face, accentuating his cheekbones. Craftily working the top button of his snow-white dress shirt open, he pats down the wrinkles in his coat before pushing the faded wooden door of the lecture room open.

As he crosses the threshold, his mobile vibrates sharply in his pocket and he fumbles inward to reach for it.

_Enjoy art class. Be sure to mail your first painting to Mummy so that she can hang it on her refrigerator next to the ones you painted in nursery. - MH_

Sherlock huffs out a half-annoyed laugh, thumbs flying over the keys of his mobile as he types a response, giving his brother every bit the eloquence and insightfulness that he deserves.

_Piss off, Mycroft. - SH_

**********

John didn’t think that an art appreciation course could get any worse.

John was very, very wrong.

He doesn’t consider himself to be a particularly pessimistic person. Sure, he can become a tad moody after going too long without a cup of tea. And yeah, he’s been known to panic at four in the morning on the day of a really difficult exam. For the most part, though—he’s a pretty pleasant guy.

But.

But.

_But._

At this current moment—Monday January fifteenth, ten thirty-five AM—he is beginning to reconsider all prior notions he’s ever had about himself.

Because _Sherlock Sodding Holmes_ is walking into the room.

Into _his_ bloody art appreciation class.

And John would rather like to punch the wall.

Each person in the room lifts their eyes to Sherlock Holmes, voices erupting into a buzzing tide of murmurs.

Just like they always do.

Sherlock, a gust of wind wrapped in a stupidly expensive woolen coat, sweeps his eyes over the small room on his way up the aisle. His collar is popped up, dramatically framing his cheekbones, his dark curls tousled artfully atop his head.

John wonders dimly what he’s done to anger the gods enough to deserve this.

**********

Never able to resist a dramatic entrance, Sherlock breezes into the room, twenty-odd sets of eyes venturing upwards to land on him. He suppresses a grin at the sudden rumbling of voices (he does so love being adored, after all), and, pocketing his mobile, scans the room for a suitable seat.

And as he ventures towards the back of the room, he freezes, his stomach somersaulting into his throat.

Because disastrously, deplorably, horrifically, the first pair of eyes to meet his are the royal blue, heavy-lashed ones of John Watson.

UGH.

For one very brief, very slight moment, Sherlock seriously considers taking up the didgeridoo.

**********

John feels his jaw tightening, his spine stiffening as Sherlock nears him.

There’s no way in _Hell_ this is happening.

John can suffer through sharing lectures on a pertinent subject with Sherlock Holmes, but to have to take an art course with this wonderboy—a course in which Sherlock will no doubt effortlessly excel, as he seems to do in nearly everything… Well, _that_ is too much to ask.

Sailing smugly over towards the back row (as per usual), Sherlock nears John’s desk. His eyes flicker up at him briefly, snagging onto them for a second too long before skittering unevenly away.

But it only takes a single second for John to notice the static electricity building up, almost palpable between them. It dances on the back of his neck, at the insides of his wrists. A frisson of tension, a spark of dislike, a surge of rivalry—all prickling sharply against his skin.

John barely smothers a grin as Sherlock trips unceremoniously over his own feet.

**********

If Sherlock happens to stumble as he moves to claim a seat, it’s got nothing at all to do with John Watson’s heavy-lashed eyes resting upon him. His momentary lack of grace can only be explained by some dangerous, undetectable object on the floor; given John Watson’s unsuccessful effort to contain an evil laugh, Sherlock is one million percent sure that _he_ is the one who put it there.

Forcing himself to remain unaffected by John Watson’s malicious act, Sherlock averts his eyes, casually smoothing down the sides of his coat with as much dignity as he can muster.

“Mister Holmes, I presume?” a slightly harried voice calls from the back corner of the classroom.

Sherlock follows the voice and settles his gaze upon the professor. A man in his mid-twenties stands before him, pen and clipboard in hand, a look of mild annoyance on his symmetrical features. Dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a plain tweed jacket with sleeves just a bit too short for his long arms, he wears the outfit with an air of studied casualness that Sherlock finds somewhat telling. Obviously an artist—and a practising one at that, going by the smudges of graphite on the outside of his right palm and forefinger. Which is nice, Sherlock supposes; if he must be forced to take a course that does not interest him, he would prefer it be led by someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.

This man clearly appreciates _art._

And _oh._  (Waistband.) He also appreciates _men._

Sherlock knows exactly how to play that to his advantage.

“Apologies,” Sherlock croons, swiftly assembling his features into his most convincing pout. “Professor—er—”

The professor’s grip on his clipboard tightens almost imperceptibly. “Victor,” he interrupts. “Victor Trevor, Professor Morstan’s post-doc. I’ll be the one teaching this course.”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip subtly, and the professor clings even more tightly. Sherlock wonders if he’s going to snap the clipboard in half.

“Apologies for arriving late, Victor,” Sherlock says, leaning slightly closer to the man. He splays his hand on the edge of John’s desk, ignoring the quiet grunt of annoyance he emits. “There was a minor issue at the office of the Dean, but fortunately,” he says, cutting his eyes down to John, “it will all be resolved quite soon.”

John coughs once, staring at the hand that’s still resting on his desk. Sherlock ignores him, and he coughs again, louder, until Sherlock pulls his hand away with a huff.

“Don’t worry about it, Mister Holmes,” Victor says curtly, and Sherlock snaps his attention back to him.

“Sherlock,” he says softly, tilting his head toward Victor. “Please.”

“Sherlock.” Victor clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and stares a tiny bit too long before continuing. “It’s the first day, so I will forgive you _this_ time. But please don’t let it become a habit.”

“Of course not, Victor. Thank you for understanding.” Sherlock flashes his most fetching smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be on my way to my seat. I’m very much looking forward to hearing your lecture.”

Victor’s mouth turns up slightly at the corners, and Sherlock silently congratulates himself (that was even easier than he thought it would be).

Sherlock turns once again to head to his seat, and as he does, he glances down—finding himself pinned into place by the unrepentant gaze of John Watson.

John is staring at Sherlock, incredulous, chin tipped down, eyes ablaze underneath thick eyelashes. His lips are parted slightly; one side of his mouth quirked higher than the other, with an odd sort of smirk that is neither malicious nor mirthful. Sherlock stares back, silently wondering if the man before him is going to laugh, or to yell, or to punch something. He needs more data, so he takes another half step towards him, studying his features closely.

John doesn’t flinch, defiantly peering back, though his cheeks become lightly tinged with pink.

Sherlock steadily places both palms on John’s desk, looming so closely that John must tilt his head back to keep him within view.

“Nice jumper, _Doctor,”_ Sherlock murmurs derisively. “My grandfather has one just like it.”

“Is that so?” John continues to smile as he speaks, but it’s brittle, and icy, and insincere. Flicking his tongue lightly over his lips, he steadily holds eye contact, the blue of his eyes dark and unwavering. “Tell your grandfather I said he’s got great taste, then.”

Beneath Sherlock’s palms, the smooth wood of the desk feels cold and stark in contrast to the flames of rivalry steadily banking within him. The two men remain locked in a dueling gaze that is gradually becoming heated, molten—holding onto it as though they have no other choice.

Perhaps, Sherlock thinks, they don’t.

That is, until Victor pointedly clears his throat, causing the two men to simultaneously tear their eyes apart.

“Gentlemen?” Victor says. “Can we sort this out later? I’d like to continue the lecture.”

John’s eyes fall to his desk, the flush in his cheeks becoming a deep scarlet. Sherlock steadies his own focus ahead of him, attempting to regulate his breathing as he strolls to a chair at the back of the room.

Sliding into his seat, he tucks his chin into his coat and then grabs the edges, wrapping it tightly about himself like a blanket. He shoves his hands into his pockets and slides down a little bit on the hard plastic of the chair until his spine is stretched out in a long curve.

Here, he will be able to observe Watson’s every move.

And if Sherlock must feign appreciation for art in order to bring his marks up, then _feign he shall._

This is a battle he will not lose.           


	2. Molly and Irene Know What’s Up While John and Sherlock Act Like Four-Year-Olds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Irene lifts one eyebrow thoughtfully, flicking her gaze up and down Sherlock’s face. “In the years I’ve known you, I’ve seen you hate many people,” she muses. “But I’ve got to say—I’ve never seen the fire burn so hot.”_

“We aren’t _talking_ about him, Irene.” Sherlock slams his coffee down onto the table to enhance the point he is trying to make. “I’m not even willing to _think_ about him.”

Irene lets out an exasperated sigh before taking a sip of her tea, watching him steadily over the rim of her cup. “Suit yourself. But for someone you’re _not_ talking about and _not_ thinking about, you seem to be doing rather a bit of both this past week or so.”

“Not true _,”_ Sherlock protests. “I talk about other things all the _time.”_

Irene sets her elbow on the table and rests her head in her hand. “Such as?”

“Well.” He racks his brain to think of an applicable topic. “On our way to the student centre, I was talking to you about how the pattern of missing hair overlooked during shaving on a face can convey whether or not a person has completed the previous night’s assignment, and what their mark is going to be—”

“Yes, you’re right.” Irene smiles. “And who, exactly, did you study to come to this conclusion?”

Sherlock stares for a moment, confused, and then huffs. “I don’t know any of their names.”

Irene looks at him blankly.

“Not _John Watson,_ for Christ’s sake.”

She says nothing, which Sherlock finds _infuriating,_ but he simply turns his head away from Irene and blinks casually. “Anyway, as I told you, I am no longer talking about it.”

“I understand, Dear. And forgive me. But I told Molly I’d try to sway you. John _is_ her best friend, after all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Frankly, your girlfriend shouldn’t be involved. This is a _serious matter._ Wars are to be had. Bridges are to be burned. John Watson must go down in flames.”

Irene lifts one eyebrow thoughtfully, flicking her gaze up and down Sherlock’s  face. “In the years I’ve known you, I’ve seen you hate many people,” she muses. “But I’ve got to say—I’ve never seen the fire burn so hot.”  

Sherlock picks his coffee up for the singular purpose of angrily slamming it onto the table yet again. “It’s just _preposterous_!” he hisses. “I am the cleverest person at this university by far. What did I do to deserve such a demotion, especially to someone like him?!”

“Well...” Irene tilts her head slightly, displaying a tight-lipped smile, and Sherlock can tell that she is trying rather hard not to mention the chem lab incident.

_“_ SHUT _UP,”_ he snaps, pettishly folding his arms over his chest and tucking his chin.

“I didn’t say a _thing_ ,” she objects.

“You were thinking it.” Sulking, he pulls his feet up to rest in the seat of his chair and wraps his long arms around his knees.

“I’m not judging, Love.” Irene leans forward a bit in her chair, reaching her hands out to pat Sherlock on the head affectionately. “It’s not too often that a school chemistry lab goes down in a blaze of glory like that. You should be proud.”

“True,” he concedes with a gracious tip of his head, coming out of his sulk only long enough to preen a bit. “I can hardly help if the moronic professor didn’t understand that the fire was _actually_ the outcome of a completely successful experiment.”

“Of course it was,” Irene agrees swiftly. “That professor is an idiot anyway. Never taken a course from him, but the people in the Public Relations school have heard things.”

Sherlock’s interest is piqued, and he is again reminded of why Irene is his best friend—she never fails to know exactly how to lift his spirits.

“Fake diploma?” Sherlock grins. “Yes, quite obvious. He purchased it off a man at some market in a third world country.”

“Should have been you teaching the course,” Irene says, her eyes glittering. “I’m sure _you’d_ have done much better.”

Sherlock snorts. “I practically did teach it. He spent most of his time showing videos and trying to argue with me about the chemical tendencies of tobacco ash.”

“Idiot.” Irene smiles again. “Anyway,” she begins, her eyes narrowing. “Regarding John Watson… you’re _really_ passionate about this hatred for him. And if there is one thing I’ve learned in studying public relations, it’s that there really is a fine line between love and hate.”

“Not if you hate everyone,” Sherlock says reasonably, resting his chin on his knee.

Irene rolls her eyes, but he can tell she’s amused. “All I’m saying is, perhaps you could get to know John a little better. Study his motives, learn his weaknesses, figure out what it would take for you to get back to the top of the class.”

Sherlock’s heart twists painfully in his chest, and he stares at Irene as if she’s lost her mind. “I’ve got absolutely no interest in doing that. Why—Why would I want to spend my time with him and his ridiculous sapphire blue eyes that have grey rings around the pupils?”

“Oh, Darling,” Irene laughs pityingly. “You’ve memorised the colour of his _eyes.”_

Sherlock feels the tips of his ears begin to prickle with heat. “No I _have not,_ Irene. They’re just _there,_ and _bright,_ and that’s what I do, I _observe.”_

Irene smiles at him; there’s a hint of imminent scandal behind the expression, and as always, it’s unsettling. “They _are_ lovely eyes.”

Sherlock crinkles his nose and frowns at her and absolutely does not lie when he says, “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

He attempts to turn his frown into a glower, because he gets the distinct impression that she doesn’t believe him. “I _haven’t,”_ he repeats. “I’m solely concerned about my studies.”

“Of course.” Irene takes another sip of tea, her eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. “Not about John Watson. Not at all.”

“Nope.”

“Right,” Irene says. She grins, glancing down at her watch. “In any case, I’ve got to head to meet Molly. I’ll talk to you later, okay, Love?”

Sherlock feels distinctly unsatisfied by this conversation.

Sherlock feels as though Irene believes she knows more about how he feels than _he_ does, and that’s annoying.

Sherlock feels like John Watson is all of the problems of the world wrapped up in one tiny human being.

He presses his lips into a thin line and doesn’t look up at Irene as she stands to leave.

She leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek anyway. “Let me give you some advice: if you truly want to _beat_ him, you’ve got to stay one step ahead. You may find it useful to look at Victor’s syllabus, to study up on things in advance. You can think of it as research.”

Sherlock’s face untwists a bit at the word _research._ “Yes,” he muses. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

“Of course I am,” Irene says. “Goodbye, Darling.”

“Bye,” he mutters sullenly. Waiting for her to leave before reaching into his bag to retrieve his laptop, he goes to his email and opens up the syllabus of the art course. He scans the course layout—horrendous, boring, ridiculous, absolutely _pointless_ —until he finds “Recommended Texts” listed towards the end.

He’s got another torturously dull seminar to look forward to this evening, but before then, he’s going to need to pay a visit to the library.

—————

“Sodding _hell.”_ John looks down at the pages of his textbook, just as he has been for what seems like hours. It’s clearly doing him no good. He’s read the same paragraph at least a half-dozen times, but the words are fuzzy before his eyes.

Since the term had begun a week ago, there seems to be only one thing, one _person,_  demanding all of his attention.

“This is _awful,_ Molls,” John groans, staring ahead in a blank panic. “We’ve got this big test coming up tomorrow, and I just can’t seem to concentrate on anything but that _lunatic._ ”

Molly sighs and looks up from her textbook with an expression of faint concern and slight irritation. “Yeah? _Still?”_

John grips his short, sandy blond hair with both fists, tugging lightly but with _feeling._ “I mean, Jesus. You should _see_ the way he just—just barges into the room every day, as if he owns the place, flirting with the post-doc to get whatever he wants. It’s absolutely _shameless.”_

Molly looks back down at her book. “Mm, yes, sounds terrible,” she hums absently.

“And Victor doesn’t exactly stop it happening, which is frankly creepy.”

“Hm,” Molly says mildly, turning a page. 

“I just… I just don’t understand. Everyone in this whole school worships the self-entitled, posh-arse infant like he’s Jesus Christ himself—It’s honestly just pathetic.”

Molly ignores him, continuing to study placidly, but John barrels onward. “His brother is the Dean, Molls, and his family is rolling in money, and everyone knows he just got accepted here at such a young age because of all of that—“ 

“Oh, it couldn’t have been because he’s a genius,” Molly says blandly. “Definitely not.”

“It’s _not,”_ John insists. “He’s just insufferable and immoral and will go to any lengths possible to get exactly what he wants. He’s always _been_ that way.”

Molly sighs again, this time with more annoyance. “John.” 

“What?”

“Irene is meeting me here in a few moments to take me out to dinner.” She smiles, her eyes taking on a faraway look that softens her features. “It’s our anniversary. And I haven’t got much more time to study for this test, so, as much as I really, truly _feel_ for you and this pretty wonderboy you can’t seem to stop thinking about, can we _please_ talk about it later?” 

John rolls his eyes in disgust and returns to the pages of his textbook. The two of them sit in silence for several moments as he scans the pages.

Molly always acts so casual about Sherlock Holmes and the infuriating way he _exists,_ and John simply does not understand it. Sure, the majority of the entire universe seems to _adore_ the bastard, but John is not the only one who thinks Sherlock is pretty fucking terrible.

Sherlock Holmes’ notorious reputation had begun in first year, when he’d already been established as the resident boy genius of the university. Alongside the dozens of women and men who had tripped over themselves to simply spend time with him, there had also been many people who hated him for his rudeness and arrogance.

Within his first term, he had become known for his abilities to perform a strange trick: he had possessed the uncanny ability to tell people things about themselves that nobody else seemed to notice.

Loudly calling out serial cheaters in front of their professors and getting them put on academic probation. Informing half the swim team during a tournament that they had a strain of a certain sexually transmitted disease contracted from a particularly nasty janitor that nobody would own up to. Delighting in informing God and everyone that not only was Professor Blah Blah wrong about _this_ or _that,_ but furthermore announcing in front of the entire classroom that their wife was at home cheating on them with another lover. 

Deducing, he calls it. 

Personally, John feels that’s just not _on._

John takes a breath into the silence. “And what the hell is up with that bloody _coat_ he’s always wearing? He doesn’t even take it off when he’s indoors. He’s probably hiding something illegal in it, like drugs, or body parts, or—”  

“Oh, _do_ be quiet, John,” Molly snaps at him, finally reaching her breaking point. She does that thing with her face she does sometimes, that thing that basically ensures John’s immediate agreement, no matter what they’re discussing. It’s unpleasant, not to mention uncanny. John suspects witchcraft.

Almost immediately, her demeanour softens a bit as she leans forward across the table. “I know he’s a tosser at times, John, but you really, really need to study for this exam if you’re going to keep your place at the top of the class. And you’ve got that art seminar tonight, which is going to take up most of your evening. So I think it might be in your best interest to, I don’t know, ignore him?” 

“I’ve _tried!”_ John hisses, feeling his frustration build. “But... the way he just… gets up in people’s _space_ … leans on people’s _desks_ … stares and stares and stares… snapping out retort after retort and retort and taking up every last bit of _oxygen in the room..._ It’s just…” And John finds himself at a loss for words, which makes him even _more_ frustrated.

Molly smiles at him sympathetically. “I don’t know what to say, John. Maybe you should just talk to him, then? Give him a chance?” she says gently. 

“Give _him_ a chance?” John erupts. A group of first year students a few tables over shoot him dirty glares, and he lowers his voice. “Give him a chance?” he repeats. “Molly! His life is one enormous chance! He is the poster-child of chances! He has all of the chances in the world! Why the hell would _I,_ John Watson, give Sherlock Holmes a _chance?”_  

“Well,” Molly says, her tone reasonable, “Irene likes him— _really_ likes him. You know she doesn’t like that many people, and she likes you too, so it’s our opinion that you and Sherlock _might_ get on a bit better than you two seem to think.”

John’s jaw nearly hits the table, and he has to snap it shut in order to refrain from saying something spiteful. _Our opinion,_ indeed. He settles for grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stares at the pages of his textbook, still not comprehending a single thing.

“I really like someone?” Irene approaches the table from behind a shelf of books, appearing at Molly’s shoulder. “Who might that be?” She leans in, kissing Molly lightly on the side of her mouth, bringing a flush to Molly’s cheeks. “Other than you, that is.”

John watches as Irene joins them at the table, folding her long, elegant limbs into one of the chairs as she smiles lovingly at Molly.

“We were just talking about—” Molly begins, smiling back, her face lighting up with a grin. 

“Sherlock _Sodding_ Holmes,” John interjects, his voice a growl.  

“Oh?” Irene breaks her gaze from Molly, her eyebrows climbing to her hairline as she leans over the table. “You too, hm?” She presses her lips together, arms folded. She looks like she wants to say more than she’s letting on, but she _always_ looks like that.

Regardless, John can feel himself frowning. He’s _angry_ —and he knows everyone can tell. “What do you mean _me too?”_

“Dear God,” Irene says. “I swear, I have never seen two people so _obsessed_ with one another. Why don’t you two just find a private room somewhere and snog each other senseless? I’m _sure_ you’d get along just fine after that.”

Molly elbows Irene in the ribs pointedly, and Irene breaks off with a little huff of air. She frowns at Molly questioningly and Molly gives her a _look;_ clearly, a whole conversation has passed that only the two of them are privy to.

Irene watches Molly for a moment, her expression warring between fond and exasperated. Fond seems to win out in the end and she stands, although not without throwing John one of the most exaggerated looks of _wait-till-I-tell-you-what-I-know_ in the history of the world.

“All I’m saying is—he’s gorgeous, isn’t he? Half the student body, male _and_ female, would gladly leap over a pile of venomous snakes for a chance at a snog with him.” Irene grins at John for a moment, eyebrows raised expectantly. “You can’t tell me you’ve never at least _thought_ about it.”

John literally chokes on air in his horror. “God, Irene. I would _never._ Not with _him.”_ He pauses for a moment as his mind catches up with the rest of her statement. “And it’s got nothing to do with him being a…I mean, I don’t _exclusively_ prefer…”

Molly and Irene glance at each other, knowing smiles on their faces.

John has always been secure in his bisexuality, although it’s typically been a non-issue. He knows that there are rumours going around about him being some sort of Casanova, but the truth is—leading the harried life of a med student, he’s chosen to spend most of his time focusing on his studies rather than on his love life. 

“You both _do_ know that I’m bisexual... right?” he asks, his eyebrows raised. 

Irene bursts into laughter as Molly gives him a benevolent smile that paints her face in sweet shades. 

“Of _course_ we know, John,” Molly says. “We’ve all been friends since our first year here. It’s not as if we haven’t noticed the way you look at your teammates sometimes.” She giggles a little bit. “We know you aren’t simply admiring their well-formed, ahem, _rugby tactics.”_

“Oh, no. You’re _clearly_ admiring their well-formed arses,” Irene remarks lightly, and Molly elbows her again, her face reddening. Irene bends, kissing the top of her head lightly. “Oh, Darling, I do love to make you blush,” she says, nuzzling her hair, and Molly’s look of irritation fades as she turns her head and kisses her softly on the lips.

“Right,” John says curtly, clearing his throat again. “Good.”

“But that’s…” he says as Molly turns her head back up to face him. “That’s all...really beside the point. We aren’t talking about how—how gorgeous he is.” His tongue stumbles over the word. _Why?_ “We’re talking about what an insufferable cockwomble he is.”

“An insufferable cockwomble,” Molly says blandly. “Of course. You should put that in your resume, John— _sparred with an insufferable cockwomble to become reigning top of the class._ ” 

Irene laughs again, carding her fingers through Molly’s long, strawberry blonde hair.

John is not amused. Everything Molly is saying is true, after all, and he wishes these two wouldn’t make light of his suffering.

“In any case, you’ll have to excuse us, Darling,” Irene says to John. “I’ve got a dinner date with this beautiful girl here.” She slips an arm around Molly’s waist. “Although, I’m kind of thinking we should skip the main course so we can go straight to dessert.”

Molly smiles brightly, her dimples forming deeply in her cheeks, and leans in to kiss Irene on the lips. She then turns to John, touching him lightly on the arm. “Try to get some studying done, yeah? I hate to be _that friend_ , but you really can’t afford not to do well on this exam.”

John’s face stiffens. “Yeah,” he says, glancing hopelessly back down at his textbook. “I will.”

Molly leans in to wrap her arms around John’s shoulders in a friendly hug, and Irene ruffles his hair affectionately. “Good luck, Dear,” Irene says. She takes Molly’s hand and they weave their fingers together as they turn to stroll out of the library, leaving John alone with his thoughts and his anger and his books.

And the looming fact that although he’s got an art appreciation seminar to attend in an hour with that prat in the stupid wool coat, he’s still got to study for this fucking anatomy test.

He sighs to himself. He’s gonna need some help with that. So he stands up, leaving his books and bags behind, and heads off in search of anything containing copious amounts of caffeine.

—————

Sherlock enters the library, tote bag slung over one arm, Moleskine notebook in the other. He glances down at the notebook, scanning over the title of several texts relating to the course syllabus Victor had constructed. Willing himself to bypass his normal fare (the forensics), he cruises directly to the art section. Once he is there, he thumbs through several volumes of utter tosh, finally settling on a book that was _definitely_ on the recommended reading list. The title: “Painted Glories: A Study In Nudes.”

He sits down at the first empty table he sees, thankful for the peace and quiet, and settles in with the book. It is, as he had thoroughly predicted, complete rubbish. He scans each page with increasing disappointment, hoping in vain to find something, _anything,_ that piques his interest even the slightest bit.

A few minutes into the gruelling process, he reaches the section on da Vinci, and finds a page containing the image of _L’uomo Vitruviano_ —The Vitruvian Man.

Oh. This one is interesting.

Drawn to the evenness and proportions of the drawing, Sherlock inspects it closely, intensely—so intensely, in fact, that he doesn’t hear footsteps approaching him.

“Oh my god. What the _hell_ are _you_ doing here?” a voice snaps.

Startled, Sherlock quickly slams the book shut, hoping that nobody has noticed the art he had been so thoroughly appreciating. He looks up, attempting to assemble his features into something that he hopes is casual amidst the troubling realisation that _John Watson_ is standing beside him.

“Oh. I was brushing up on some… proportional relationships,” he says casually, spreading his fingers over the cover of his book to ensure the title remains shrouded. “Is there a problem?”

John steps forward, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, and glares down at Sherlock in the same way that Sherlock had glared down at him at his desk a few days ago. “Yes, there’s a problem,” he says. “You took my chair.”

Sherlock simply stares back up at John with obviously _faked innocence,_ hands folded protectively over the book that he’s just slammed shut with enough force to shake the table. 

“Apologies,” he says, studying John blandly. “I hadn’t realised these chairs had _owners_.” 

John gives Sherlock a very flat smile. “Move, please,” he says, trying his best to remain calm. 

Sherlock frowns at him, pushing the corners of his mouth down as far as they will go in an effort to hide the cocky grin that’s trying to climb its way to the surface. He feels tingly, and anticipatory, and annoyed.  “Nope,” he says, his lips popping at the “p”. “There was nobody here when I arrived, and I’m afraid I’ve got some studying to do.” 

John’s face reddens and he looks back at him incredulously. “There are plenty of tables in the library. And you could be studying… _literally_ anywhere. Why have you got to do it _here?”_  

Their eyes lock like two sets of magnets, inexorably drawn together. “I could ask you the very same, Doctor. Shouldn’t you be doing something useful, such as passing out Paracetamol?” 

John huffs and looks down suspiciously at the book Sherlock is grasping onto so tightly. “What are you studying, anyway?”

“Nothing of any concern to you,” Sherlock drawls.

Ignoring Sherlock, John reaches down for the book, grabbing the edge lightly. He tugs at the edge and surprisingly, it slips out of his grasp a few centimetres before Sherlock grabs at it again with the tips of his long fingers. 

John tugs more, harder, and it slips free. 

“Hey, don’t—” Sherlock starts.

But John is already scanning the title, and he laughs, shaking his head simultaneously. “Studying ahead, then?” He pauses.  “Have you just… got to be so maddeningly flawless—the model of genius and talent in _everything_ you do?” 

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat at John’s words; an unexpected reaction, to be sure. Before he has time to analyse his body’s response, John’s escalating indignation tears him back into the conversation.

“You just can’t give anyone else a chance, can you?” John scoffs. “I mean, for Christ’s sake. Apparently you can’t even take an _art_ class without trying to show everyone else up. You probably already paint like Van Gogh. Don’t even need the instruction.”

Sherlock has no idea how to respond to this—truthfully, he’s never painted a single thing in his life. And truthfully, there is only one person he is actually trying to show up. So he thinks he should feel quite insulted at the rude and presumptuous words spewing out of this man. But strangely, horrifically, he doesn’t. 

His eyes settle once again on John’s tired face, which is tight with exasperation. 

“Give me my book back.” It’s the only thing Sherlock can think of to say. So to reinforce his decision, he reaches out his hands and begins swiping at the book.

John looks back at him, unblinking; then his face seems to _shift._ It smooths, the edges of his mouth lifting subtly into a slight smile. “Alright, I will,” he says, tucking it close to his chest. “If you’ll give me my seat back.” 

Sherlock frowns at him. “It isn’t _your seat_.” He reaches out again and grabs onto the book, starting to pull on it just as John had, but John continues to hold onto it firmly. “And I was  _reading that!”_  

“And _I,”_ John says, pulling the book back. “... was _sitting_ here.”

Sherlock releases his grip on the book and purses his lips together. “And yet _you no longer_ _are,”_ he argues. 

John rolls his eyes; his tongue makes a steady swipe over his lower lip as he locks his gaze with Sherlock’s again, and Sherlock feels a quiet little thrill in his chest.

But Sherlock refuses to admit defeat, and then an idea comes to him. He glances over at a pile of books strewn across the table, which are presumably the ones John was using to study. Casually, he snaps one up, opens it, and begins to flip through the pages. 

Two can play at _this_ game. 

“Oh my god, Sherlock!” John exclaims with disdain. “That’s my _book._ I need to study. I’ve got a big test tomorrow, and—”

“Hm, not really my problem,” Sherlock says lightly, scanning through the book pages for a moment, and when he realises what he’s looking at, his eyes fly open just a bit. 

“Really, Doctor,” he says, turning the book over to display a very graphic, very detailed diagram to John. “The anatomy of the female reproductive system? I don’t particularly imagine you need a textbook to study _this,_ considering all of the incidental experience you’ve gained.”

John’s mouth opens and shuts a few times in an extremely undignified way that he seems to be unable to control.

And then, with a little grunt, he leans in towards Sherlock, wrapping his fingers tightly around Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock hums indignantly in the back of his throat, and his skin grows cold at John’s touch. He squirms, suddenly very aware of how close John is looming.

“Give me back my book, Sherlock,” John says darkly. “Or I’m going. To have. To _make_ you.”

Sherlock continues to wriggle in his chair uncomfortably, gooseflesh forming on his arm underneath the sleeve of his thick coat. John’s face is very, very close to Sherlock; so is the rest of him. He radiates warmth, and Sherlock wonders fleetingly if it’s residual energy from all his pent-up anger, or if he simply runs that hot.

“Is that so?” Sherlock remains stubborn, even with the warmth of John bleeding into him at every point of contact, and he narrows his eyes at John. “And how. Exactly. Are you going. To  _make me?”_

They peer at one another defiantly for several seconds, until John breaks their gaze, leaning in even closer—so close that Sherlock can feel his breath on his skin.

Bracing one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, John drops his voice low and threatening, his mouth hovering centimetres from Sherlock’s ear. “As you well know,” he utters, “I’m a student of medicine. Which means that, yes, I _have_ been studying the human anatomy for _years_.”   

A warm and tingling sensation slides down Sherlock’s neck, his spine. Someone is breathing heavily; he can’t tell which one of them it is.

“And I just happen to know exactly how to break every bone in your body.” At that, John slides his hand down the length of Sherlock’s arm, squeezing it abruptly to make a point, and Sherlock shivers involuntarily. He can feel the whisper of John’s words, warm on the shell of his ear. “While naming them.”

And just as John says that, his other arm comes around to grab the book out of Sherlock’s grip, retrieving it with absolutely no resistance on Sherlock’s part. Sherlock is too distracted to notice. He is frozen to the chair, heart beating like a drum.

John chuckles softly, maliciously, and leans away from Sherlock before giving him a victorious smile. Sherlock idly realises that John has taken the anatomy textbook back, and at some point, he had returned the art book to the table as well. 

“Thanks,” John says, holding his book up. “Enjoy studying. See you at the seminar.”

Sherlock gawks back up at him, silently, eyes wide. He lifts one hand up and presses it to his own sternum, attempting to gather data over why he’s _suddenly having trouble breathing._ It doesn’t take long for him to come to the conclusion that it’s absolute hatred pressing down on his lungs.

John continues to grin back at him like there’s nothing wrong.

“You okay, Sherlock?” he asks in an _infuriatingly_ composed voice.

“I’m—” Sherlock begins. He doesn’t know what to say or do, until his eyes venture over to the textbook John is holding.

He looks back up at John, a spark of challenge in his eyes. 

And without warning, Sherlock launches himself out of the chair at John, grabbing the anatomy textbook back from him and stuffing it underneath one arm. 

And then...he runs.

_“Hey!”_ John yells out indignantly. His mouth hangs open as he watches Sherlock leave, dashing out of the library into the main corridor of the building. 

John is a bit unsure of whether or not the scene he just saw actually _happened._  

“Wow,” he mutters under his breath. “What a fucking _child.”_

So John does the adult thing.

He runs after Sherlock.


	3. When ‘God no oh dear god no fuck fuck buggering fuck no‘ Actually Means ‘Fuck Yes’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He slides himself down the wall, sinking to the floor until his spine hits the cold tile. “Watson,” he whispers to himself. “You idiot. Not you, too.”_

John Watson has hit a new low.  

Not only has he given Sherlock Holmes the satisfaction of ruffling his feathers in a way that nobody else can—but he is now actually _chasing him._ Through the library. At a full-on scamper. And not giving a damn who sees it.

What can he say? He needs his textbook back.

As John runs into the main corridor, he doesn’t spot the utter arse within the immediate vicinity, so he pauses briefly to survey the area. He thinks he may see the long tail of a (posh) (obnoxious) (ridiculous) black coat flash around the edge of a nearby restroom doorway. He dashes down to follow it, shoving the door open briskly and stepping inside.

Nobody is there.

Or so it appears, anyway. But as John stands absolutely still, fingers curled at his sides, he swears he can hear laboured breathing through the door of one of the stalls.

He absolutely _refuses_ to let himself get angry, or to stoop down to Sherlock Holmes’ level of immaturity. (He ignores the fact that he’s just run, full-tilt, across the building—that had been an absolute necessity, so it doesn’t count.)

Taking a deep breath, John squares his shoulders. “Sherlock,” he says evenly, feeling as though he’s approaching some frightened, feral animal. “Come out. I need my book back.”

No response.

John sighs. _“Sherlock.”_

Still nothing.

“You know what, mate?” John says. “You can’t stay in there forever. And we’ve got to get to our seminar soon. So... just give my book back and we can move on like nothing happened.”

John waits a few more seconds before adding a cajoling _“Please.”_

To John’s surprise, that’s apparently all it takes. Seconds later, the stall door slowly swings open, revealing the lanky, posh bastard curled like a comma on the toilet seat—his long legs steepled, arms wrapped around his knees. He stares up at John for a moment, wide-eyed, before unfolding himself to stand.

Sherlock’s tone is conciliatory when he speaks. “Well,” he says, his expression contrite. “I suppose, since you asked nicely—”

John smiles. “Right. Good.” As Sherlock moves towards him, John reaches one hand out to remove the textbook from his possession.

Because John thinks (stupidly) that Sherlock is going to let go of the book like a good boy; John thinks (stupidly) that he’ll soon be studying in peace; John thinks (stupidly) that Sherlock is going to smile back.

John is (obviously) wrong. Because Sherlock does none of these things; rather, he shoves the textbook deep into his (ugly) (expensive) tote, and he _bolts,_ and John doesn’t know whether he’s annoyed or just amused, but he is _going_ to get his book back.

Sherlock is fast for such a gangly thing, but thankfully, John is faster. He growls wordlessly, reaching out to grab both of Sherlock’s upper arms before he flees. He spins Sherlock around to face him, and Sherlock’s long fingers reflexively wrap around his wrists.

 

**********

 

“Sherlock. What are you doing?” John’s voice is low, measured. He’s not nearly outraged enough for this to be gratifying for Sherlock, whose desire to antagonise John has reached a fervent, hell-bent intensity.

“I thought it was _obvious,”_ Sherlock snaps, wriggling violently in John’s grasp. “I’m _running.”_ He tightens his hold on John’s wrists, attempting to pull John’s irritatingly muscular arms off, and after a few tiring seconds, he’s able to twist one arm away.

John takes the opportunity to make a swipe at Sherlock’s tote bag. He’s obviously very proud of himself for making this ingenious move, but the pride is premature. “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock!” he grunts, his fingers grappling fruitlessly as Sherlock evades him. “Just give me my book back!”

“Let _go_ of me first.” Sherlock continues to squirm, his voice coming out a tiny bit higher than usual. “And I _will!”_  He swats back at John’s hand, but he doesn’t seem to be making much progress.

Finally (wisely) giving up on his hopeless effort to snag the tote bag, John moves his hand up to grip Sherlock’s coat collar. “Why the hell should I believe you?!” John exclaims, pulling Sherlock’s spindly body in closer.

John’s face is quickly becoming more and more red, and Sherlock can’t help but be just a tiny bit excited at his outrage. _Finally._

“You probably _shouldn’t!”_ Sherlock is yelling, and he grabs the hand that’s on his collar, pinching tightly. “But let go of me _anyway,_ or else I’ll—”

“Or else you’ll _what?!”_ John shouts. The two stand there, staring at one another with deep contempt.

John still doesn’t let go.

So Sherlock grips harder with the hand that is wrapped around John’s wrist and moves his other hand onto John’s broad shoulder. With a grunt, he uses all of his momentum to spin the two of them around, hoping his efforts will throw John off-balance so he can escape.

But it doesn’t quite go according to plan; John loses his balance, but he _still does not let go_ —and as he stumbles backwards, he brings Sherlock with him.

 

**********

 

John inhales sharply as his back hits the wall with a thud, and he’s suddenly tangled up in long limbs and sharp bones as Sherlock’s lanky body tumbles into his. John’s hands fly off of Sherlock with the swift force of the impact, but they immediately return, clutching at him wildly, seeking balance. His fingers find themselves coiled around the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, which does very little to mitigate the situation. 

Sherlock’s effort to regain balance is thrown off by John’s grasp. He propels forward even further, spreading the palms of his hands against the wall to brace himself. 

For a very brief moment, the two of them are stilled by the shock, standing frozen where they are, breathing heavily. Sherlock’s head hangs down above John’s shoulder, and his hair drapes loosely, tousled from the struggle. And as his upper body moves with inhalations and exhalations, his soft curls brush against the skin of John’s cheek.

It smells a little bit like coffee, and a little bit like tobacco, and a little bit like honey. John inhales, and it fills him up in a dangerously pleasant way.

It happens all at once.

It occurs to John that Sherlock is pressed up _quite closely_ against him. And he thinks of how Sherlock’s breath is warm on his neck. And he thinks of how Sherlock’s tightly-buttoned dress shirt is hugging the curves of his upper body. And he thinks of how Sherlock’s soft fingers had felt, wrapped around his wrists.

_Oh, god, no._

He thinks he’s totally fucked.

John’s stomach and heart switch places as a _terrible realisation_ pummels him with a force a million times stronger than being shoved into a wall.

He can’t push Sherlock away quickly enough. 

As Sherlock stumbles away from John, he’s wearing an expression that John cannot find a name for. But it’s something that he can feel in the pit of his stomach. Their eyes meet, and John wonders if his own are as wide as Sherlock’s.

 

**********

 

The feeling that comes over John when he figures out that he’s attracted to Sherlock Holmes is like that horrible nightmare he sometimes has—the one where he shows up to an exam he hasn’t prepared for. Which is to say: lots and lots of dread, a dash of self-hatred, and a not-insignificant amount of panic.

There’s also quite a bit of foul language filling his head.

_God no oh dear god no fuck fuck buggering fuck no._

Sherlock silently continues to back away, his footfalls delicate and elegant, as if he thinks John may grab him again if he is too noisy. As John stares at him, Sherlock fumbles around in his stupid, pretentious tote, finally pulling the _damned_ _textbook_ out of his bag. He flings it to the ground, where it lands with a jarring thump, and he turns on his heel to run.

The bathroom door swings shut behind him. John stands stock-still in the middle of the bathroom. He is unable to make his legs move.

This is terrible. This is horrible. This is absolutely more than a bit not good.

John slides himself down the wall, sinking to the floor until his spine hits the cold tile. “Watson,” he whispers to himself. “You _idiot._ Not _you, too.”_

 

**********

 

Sherlock runs out of the library building, and he keeps running, and running, until the building is out of his view. His lungs are sore from inhaling the cold winter air.

But that doesn’t stop him from wanting a cigarette. Badly.

He’s so angry that he’s practically _vibrating._  

The audacity of this man, waltzing into his mind like this. This evil, cunning, vindictive little man—possibly the only person Sherlock has ever met who is as stubborn as he is. It’s incredibly infuriating. And Sherlock cannot _believe_ —he cannot even _process._  

The way he’d looked back at Sherlock with cobalt eyes, wide and mesmerising. God. Why had he looked at him like that?

No. He doesn’t need to know.

Sherlock tucks himself behind a nearby building and reaches into his coat pocket for a pack. He removes a single cigarette, and his head _aches,_ because it’s brimming with John Watson. And when something clouds his mind, it consumes him in a way he can’t control.

The problem with having a big brain is the complete inability to _turn it all off._

There is rarely a moment of peace for him; a second when his head is quiet; not when he’s asleep, and certainly never when he’s awake.

So sometimes, he’ll go for a cigarette to clear his mind. Or three. Or twelve.

He knows it isn’t the healthiest habit to have, but it’s the only thing that gives him a few moments of silence _._ And sometimes—sometimes, he just longs for that peace.

This is only his sixth one today.

He lights the cigarette and inhales, the burn of the ash filling his lungs. He can feel his mind calming; his body sinking back into itself. With the boost of nicotine flowing through his veins, he feels connected and grounded.

Once he finishes his cigarette, he puts it out against the wall, and he strides towards the art building, where he will pretend John Watson does not exist.

 

**********

 

As John leaves the library, heading to the art seminar where Sherlock Holmes is _going to be,_ his panic becomes more and more significant.

How could he have allowed this to happen? Sherlock Holmes is the scum of the earth as far as John is concerned. The most intolerable, disagreeable person he’d ever met. The only thing they’d probably _ever_ agree on is fact that neither of them can stand the other.

John can’t think of a person he’d like to be attracted to _less._

However.

Apparently his head doesn’t rule his heart—or his hormones, as the case may be—because as much as John _despises_ this man with his _entire being,_ apparently, he also wants to snog the hell out of him.

Irene had been right. God damn her. Shit. Shit shit shit.

As John wanders into class a full fifteen minutes late, he is so aggrieved that he can’t even be bothered to feel guilty about it. He scans the room quickly to ensure that Sherlock hasn’t arrived before him—via secret passage or something else obnoxious. When he sees that he’s in the clear, he thanks every deity he can remember as he slides into the nearest empty seat in an effort to not be disruptive.

“Mister Watson,” Victor says flatly as John sits, eyeing him a tad suspiciously.

John sighs. “Mister Trevor,” he acknowledges as politely as he can given his current… state of mind.

No first names between them, apparently.

Victor taps his pen on the clipboard that he seems to always have in his hands. “We’ve been moving forward with our discussion of the portraiture assignment,” he says, “wherein you’ll be partnered up with one of your peers and assigned to paint one another’s likeness.”

“Oh,” John says. “Yes, alright.” He remembers. They had spent the past week discussing portraiture, and each of them was to be paired up with a classmate in order to do a sort of...portrait exchange.

John had hoped to be partnered with Madeline, or Vanessa, or Jackson, because, well, they are attractive, and they would be a lot of fun to paint. And to talk to. And to look at. And John would love to talk to and look at _anyone_ that isn’t that _gorgeous idiot._

The _gorgeous idiot_ whose cheekbones are made of marble, with those soft, soft, sweet-smelling curls, and those light eyes—like opals, maybe, or… or stars, or something—and legs that go on for miles… and those lips, _Christ_ , those _lips,_ those whiney, snarky, perfectly-formed lips.

God. Yes, please. _Anyone._

“Alright,” John continues, forcing himself out of his daze. “How will we choose who we’re working with?”

Victor gives him a flat, pitying smile. “Each person in the class chose their partners approximately ten minutes ago. But as _you_ were late, and _Sherlock_ seems to be indisposed at the moment…”

John’s stomach drops. _No._

“... We’ve partnered the two of you to do the assignment together.” Victor finishes this sentence calmly, as if he hadn’t just delivered absolutely devastating news.

_No._ No no no no _no._

John thinks he is going to be sick.

As he enters the early stages of a mild panic attack, he hears the classroom door slam shut with enough force to rattle the hinges.

His eyes dart to the source of the noise. There, standing in the entryway, eyes dark, face ghostly pale, is Sherlock. He is clearly unsettled, because he is standing completely, unnaturally still.

“Sherlock.” Victor nods at him in acknowledgment. “Mister Watson and I were just discussing—”

“I heard,” Sherlock retorts. There is an edge of frost to his tone that’s never been present with Victor before—though by this point, John has become well-acquainted with it.

Victor smiles politely at Sherlock, and Sherlock alone. “Then I suppose, if there are no more questions—”

Sherlock opens his mouth slightly, argument on the tip of his tongue, but Victor intervenes.

“—We can continue on with the seminar.”

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut again, plunging him into further silence. Taking a deep breath, he strolls across the room, focussing his mercurial eyes forward, and when he arrives in his chair, he slinks down in it.

So, that’s how it’s going to be. The two of them, partnered up, forced to paint one another’s portraits.

There’s no way John will be able to do this. To be in the same room as this man, to spend _that much_ time with him, to _stare_ at him for _hours_ (oh god, he _wants_ to but he _can’t)._

But he’s got to. He’s got no choice. Because his class mark depends on it.

Whoever had decided portraits were a significant form of art can go straight to hell.

 

**********

 

“How is it that two such incredibly talented, intelligent people can be such _idiots?”_ Molly complains loudly as she takes a bite of her pasta.

“They truly are,” Irene says. She spears a piece of gnocchi violently, her fork scraping against the ceramic plate with a grating sound. “Sometimes, I just want to just slap Sherlock on his pretty little face. Might knock some sense into him.”

Molly nods. “It’d probably be good for him,” she agrees. “I’m sure there’s a long line of people who’d be willing to do it.”

“Definitely,” Irene agrees, chewing her pasta delicately, a stark contrast to the aggressive nature in which she’d stabbed it. “He’s _long_ overdue.”

“I do worry about John, though,” Molly says, shifting anxiously in her chair. “I think his marks could be in danger of slipping. I’d like to help him, but...”

Irene sets her fork down, leaning across the table and pinning Molly with her gaze. “It’s like I said earlier, Love—if only they could _realise_ the true nature of their feelings for one another, maybe this obsession would be less time-consuming.”

“You really think so?” Molly asks doubtfully, taking a sip of her water. “They’re both such... _passionate_ people. And with those types of feelings, it... it may end up just becoming a different _type_ of obsession.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Irene says, shrugging elegantly as she takes her fork once more. “But at the very least, they’d be getting regularly shagged.” She smirks up at Molly from under her eyelashes, doing something indecent with her lips around the utensil as she takes another bite.  “So at least they’d be obsessively _happy.”_

Molly laughs, and blushes, and takes another drink. “Yes, well—” she begins coyly, _“I_ seem to be pretty happy these days.”

Irene smiles at her indulgently, stroking the back of Molly’s leg with the tip of her shoe under the table. “Me, too, Doll,” she purrs.  

Molly gives her a look, but doesn’t pull away. “Do you think we should do something to help those two idiots out?” she asks, trying to bring the conversation back around to the pressing issue.

Irene hesitates for a moment, letting her foot fall away. She chases a piece of gnocchi around her plate with her fork. “No,” she says eventually. “I think this is something they ought to figure out on their own.”

Molly nods; and as if by some mystical force, both of their phones ping and light up simultaneously.

Molly reads her text. It’s from John. “Oh, dear,” she says.

Irene reads hers. It’s from Sherlock. “Ohhhhhhhh. Interesting.”

They look up at one another, eyes meeting above the table. “Perhaps we _should_ help them out... a bit,” Molly suggests.

Irene smiles—that wide, beautiful, calculating smile that Molly loves so much. “My Love,” she says. “It’s as though you read my mind.”


	4. Alexander the Great + Bees + Chips = Flirting 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock shifts in his seat, finally lifting his eyes to John. “Bees?” he says, his tone tentative and almost unrecognisable._
> 
> _“Yeah,” John says slowly, falling still and meeting his gaze. “Bees.” Ah, he’s got his attention now._

The pub that John and Molly are seated in is just full enough to be convenient. There are people around, but it isn’t too loud. The atmosphere buzzes pleasantly in the periphery of John’s awareness, a low babble of laughter and conversation. It gives John the perfect peace he needs to study for his next exam.

It also gives him plenty of things to focus on that aren’t Sherlock Holmes—such as peeking over his notecards, and smiling at every attractive person who passes their table, and noticing each one who smiles back.

Molly is studying as well, but seems distracted. She’s been checking her phone with an almost obsessive frequency since they arrived fifteen minutes ago. She peers down at it in a way that she probably thinks is subtle, but John can feel himself becoming jittery from her anticipation.

“Everything okay?” he asks presently.

Molly peels her eyes away from her mobile and furrows her brow at him. “I should be asking you. Why aren’t you eating? You _love_ the fish and chips here.”

“Love is a bit of a strong word,” he grumbles moodily. “I just eat them because they’re less disgusting than everything else on the menu.”

He has been sulking for the past few days—ever since the incident in the library, during which he had discovered his own _very inconvenient_ attraction to Sherlock Holmes.

Since then, John has avoided him at all costs. The two of them haven’t spoken—haven’t even looked at one another—since they learned that they’d been paired up. And they were supposed to schedule their first portrait session this week, but it’s difficult to make plans with a person when you can’t even be in the same room with them without causing a scene.

He won’t talk about him anymore, which is a far cry from the past two weeks. The only topic John had previously seemed remotely interested in has now become banned from all discussion. But since Sherlock is _still, lamentably,_ the only thing on his mind, most of the time, John defaults to silent brooding.

He can tell Molly notices. He can tell that she’s confused. And he doesn’t blame her, not really.

She knows, of course, about John’s art assignment from Hell. And she had gladly taken it upon herself, for some reason, to bring John out to the pub that evening as a form of moral support. She must think it will make him feel better. But that’s only because she doesn’t know the entire story.

And she never will. She will never, ever, _ever_ learn about John’s attraction to Sherlock—and neither will anyone else. Not as long as John is a living, breathing human being.

Besides, he knows that there’s only one way to make his attraction go away: he’s got to pretend that it doesn’t exist.

So John has made up his mind.

He is blatantly not giving a shit about Sherlock Holmes anymore.

Hopefully he’ll manage to convince himself sooner rather than later.

“Are you alright, John?” Molly’s concerned voice pulls John from his swirling thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m good,” John answers, perhaps a touch too forcefully. “Just a bit of nerves, I guess. Happens. Rugby game coming up tomorrow, or something.”

Molly lifts an eyebrow, clearly in disbelief, but keeps her thoughts to herself. “Alright then,” she says, and her lack of further conversation speaks enough for the both of them.

Molly checks her phone again for the thousandth time. John grunts something wordless and goes back to picking at his fish and chips, if for no other reason than to appease her.

Just then, a sweet voice rings out from the crowd.

“John?”

John lifts his head and he sees one of his (pretty) classmates approaching. Abandoning his food and notecards, he stands up to give her a friendly hug, completely ignoring Molly’s raised eyebrows.

This is just the distraction he needs.

“Karen, hello,” he says with more enthusiasm than he feels.

“Hey, Love,” she responds, pecking him on the cheek. She leaves a hand on John’s arm as she pulls away. John decides to let her.

“Molly, you know Karen, yeah?” He glances over at Molly, whose face has suddenly gone dark.

“No, I don’t think we’ve met.” Molly’s voice is cold, and she looks up at Karen with a smile made of daggers. “What table were you sitting at, then?”

John frowns at Molly. She’s acting strangely. Why? Can’t she see that he just wants to talk to this nice-looking, _polite_ human?

He asks Karen to join their table, because Karen is sweet and friendly and she looks beautiful, and there are other beautiful people in the world besides _Sherlock Holmes._

She pulls out a chair across from John and settles in, leaning across the table, flashing him an enormous smile. “So,” she says, white teeth bright against her beautifully-tanned skin. “How are you feeling about that that Ancient History exam? Think you’re ready?”

“I’m sure he is,” Molly blurts loudly, her eyes fixed on her phone screen. “It’s hardly the most difficult class he’s taking this term.”

“Molly,” John warns in a slightly puzzled tone. “You really don’t need to...”

“Sorry, I erm, I just mean... well, John _is_ at the top of the class, you know… so he is obviously good at that sort of thing.” Molly still seems nervous and annoyed, but right now, John is going to give his attention to the pretty girl who is leaning over very close to him.

The one whose skin is golden (and not ivory pale), whose eyes are brown (and not indescribable), and who doesn’t smell the tiniest bit like honey and tobacco and coffee.  

“So, er—” John smiles broadly at Karen. It feels awkward. “Perhaps if you’re free tomorrow, we can meet at the library to study—”

“Oh, hello!” Molly chirps enthusiastically. She perks up in the seat next to John, peering across the pub and waving cheerily at someone in the crowd. John turns in his seat, and—

“Hello!” Irene crows in delight as she all but skips to their table, the smile on her face huge and terribly unconvincing. “I can’t _believe_ we ran into the two of you here! What are the odds?”

John thinks the odds are pretty damn good.

Because Irene isn’t alone. She strolls into the room with all of her usual confidence, arm linked tightly at the elbow with Sherlock Holmes. She’s practically dragging him after her; he lags a few steps behind and glares at anyone who dares to make eye contact with him, a look of half-offended horror on his features.   

John sighs. He knows how meddlesome Molly and Irene can be, and he knows this run-in was definitely not by chance.

Sherlock pivots on his heel, wrenching his arm out of Irene’s grasp, and he turns the full force of his glare onto her.

John’s spine straightens, a knee-jerk reaction that he doesn’t feel like examining the psychology behind. “Christ,” he mumbles under his breath, and for the sake of his sanity, he quickly hides his notecards in his lap and out of view.

“Molly, what the _hell—”_

“Irene, what is the meaning of—”

The two men speak in tandem, and John cuts his words off first, leaving Sherlock to babble onward. But Irene holds up one finger to his lips, effectively keeping him from saying anything, and John briefly vows to remember that tactic. “Shut it, you,” she says. “Look; _friends.”_

“No,” Sherlock hisses. “I see no friends here. _”_

Molly smiles innocently, and John finds that he hates all three of them equally at the moment. 

Irene beams. Molly grins. John clenches his fists. Sherlock continues to glare.

John’s gaze shifts to Sherlock. Sherlock isn’t looking at him—he is in fact very pointedly _not_ looking at him.

John glances over at Karen. She’s looking back and forth between all four of them, the slight frown on her features revealing her displeased confusion. “Karen,” John says with a smile. “Would you like to go for a walk or... something?”

Karen’s frown quickly turns into an eager smile. But before she can answer, Molly presses the palm of her hand onto John’s knee. “No, John,” she says with a look of disapproval as she applies more pressure. “Sit.”   

“Oh. Well,” Karen says uncomfortably, eyeing Molly. “I ought to head out, I suppose.”

“Karen, no—” John says, reaching half-heartedly towards her.

“It’s fine,” she says with a flat smile, standing up and evading his touch. “You’ve got your... erm… friends here.” She leans over to give John another peck on the cheek, although this one is certainly less enthusiastic. “I’ll see you in class, John.”

John looks up at Sherlock just as Karen is pulling away, and swallows. Sherlock’s eyes flicker between Karen and the floor. He scowls each time they reach her, scalding her with the heat of his contempt. John has very often found himself on the receiving end of that look. It’s luminous—bright and sharp and fixed; yet it conveys that you’re the most repulsive thing in Sherlock’s entire world. And now, for some reason, that look is being directed at _Karen,_ who hasn’t done anything but exist.

John tears his eyes away to watch as Karen leaves, and he wishes that he wanted her to stay.

His own gaze slowly wanders back up to Sherlock—his artfully arranged curls, his mouth, his nose. He can feel his face begin to flush, and he realises he’s already finding it difficult to remember what Karen looks like.

Sherlock smooths down his coat in a compulsive gesture. “As lovely as this has been,” he says quickly. His vowels are clipped, his consonants sharp. “I was actually just about to leave myself.”

“Sherlock,” Irene says. “Sit down for a second, and shut up.” She grabs him by the shoulders, unbuttons his coat, and manhandles him out of it. He makes a few small noises of protest as she wrestles him down into a chair, but he _sits._

John feels his admiration of Irene Adler increase dramatically. “No, it’s alright,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll go.”

Molly’s stomps on John’s foot with the heel of her boots, and he winces in pain, barely holding back a yelp. “Stay, John,” she says in a sweeter tone than usual.

“What the _hell,_ Molly?” John barks at her, and she smiles at him innocently again.

“You probably _should_ go, Doctor,” Sherlock drawls. He is speaking to John for the first time since their altercation at the library. There is ice in his tone, and he’s staring fixedly at his feet. Unreachable. “I’ve heard that females appreciate it when men put a tiny bit of effort into their relationships, and given the indifference you displayed just now as your girlfriend stormed off—”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” John interrupts. “She’s just a classmate, and… I don’t _have_ a girlfriend.” Great. Now he’s oversharing for some reason, and it’s embarrassing, and it was already hot in this pub anyway, and so his face is probably very red.

Their table falls into an awkward silence amidst the eager chatter of the rest of the pub. They glance everywhere but at each other. The air feels thick and heavy and uncomfortable against John’s skin.

Molly clears her throat to speak, sharply interrupting the quiet. “Anyway, erm... will you boys be okay for a moment? Irene and I have got to step out—”

“ _No,”_ John interjects, instantly filled with blind panic. “You are _not_ going to leave us here. No.”

“Sorry, John, but speaking as your best friend—”

John grunts in sardonic amusement. _Some best friend,_ he thinks darkly.

Molly ignores him and goes on. “I’m afraid it’s got to be done.” She stands up and gives both John and Sherlock a look of warning, her thin shoulders set decisively. “You two need to set up that bloody portrait appointment. So play nice for five seconds. By the time we’ve come back, you’d better have it figured out.”

“And boys,” Irene says with a scary sweetness. “Don’t you dare try to escape without us. I know too much about the both of you—and I know too many influential people—for that to be a good idea.” 

Irene smiles. John gulps. Sherlock continues to pout, but John notices that he does it with slightly more subtlety. That’s the thing with Irene: you never know if she’s teasing you, or if you really might wake up to her standing over your bed with a knife.

“Alright, then!” Irene claps her hands briskly and turns to Molly with a grin. “Come, my love. Let’s go have frantic sex in the toilets.” She winks at John. “Catch up with you later, boys!”

Molly’s face turns bright red, but she can’t hide her amusement. “Frantic sex in the toilets. Yes. Let’s go with that.” She turns to Irene, linking her arm into hers. The two of them practically scurry in the direction of the bathrooms, barely smothering giggles as they go.

Sherlock sits there sullenly, wrapping his own arms around his thin frame.

“Wow,” John exhales, shaking his head in stunned amusement. “Some friends _we’ve_ got, yeah?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, stubbornly pulling his arms closer to his chest and staring straight ahead. His profile is gorgeous and symmetrical and elegant. Damn him.

“Yeah.” John says, settling in. God. This is ridiculously awkward. “I pretty much hate Irene and Molly right now.”  

His eyes are burning because all they want to do watch Sherlock’s every move, every breath that strains at the fabric of his unreasonably tight button up. _Think about something else,_ he urges himself. _Talk about something else. Anything._ He looks down at the index cards on the table and reads the first thing he sees.

“Alexander the Great,” John blurts out.

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, but keeps his mouth pressed tightly shut.  

“Born in, um, 356 BC... his father was King Philip II of Macedonia.” He clears his throat, running the pad of his thumb over the cards.

Sherlock is frowning at John as if he’s gone mad; he likely has.

“Studied under Aristotle,” John says conversationally, warming to the subject. “His legacy is the Ancient Library in Alexandria, Egypt.” 

At this point, Sherlock’s expression has become a full-on glare—not quite the glare of loathing that he’d directed at Karen, but it’s heated enough that John feels vaguely defensive.

“Just trying to fill the silence,” John says reasonably. “That, and I’ve got a history exam coming up. So if you’re going to refuse to talk to me, you can at least sit there and listen while I recite all of the boring facts that I’ve memorised.”

Sherlock takes one long, deep breath. ( _The straining buttons of his shirt._ ) He lets it out with a dramatic whoosh of air, and _still_ he does not speak.

“Hieroglyphics,” John recites, shuffling his notecards. “The most famous method of writing in Ancient Egyptian society.” He’s not sure why he’s still talking, but, well. It’s better than an uncomfortable silence, which is the only other alternative. “Pictures and symbols, carved or painted on stones, tombs, and temples.”

He eats a chip, and consults his notecards once more.

“Um.” He shuffles through until he finds one that he likes. “Animals and insects were important to the Ancient Egyptians. Cats, dogs, birds, bees…”

Sherlock shifts in his seat, finally lifting his eyes to John. “Bees?” he says, his tone tentative and almost unrecognisable.

“Yeah,” John says slowly, falling still and meeting his gaze. “Bees.” Ah, he’s got his attention now.

“In Ancient Egypt,” John continues softly, “bees were sacred creatures. Honey was used in many different ways… for medical purposes, beauty products, sweetening food—in some cases, it even had monetary value.”

Sherlock sits up straighter in his seat. His fingers grip the edge of the table lightly, and he takes a small breath before he speaks. “Yes. According to Ancient Egyptian myth,” he murmurs, “bees were formed as the tears of the sun god, Ra. People often kept bees in various temples as a way to satisfy the desire for honey by the gods.”

“Yep,” John says. “Yeah, they did.” It’s an inane response; a stupid thing to say, but the way Sherlock is looking back at him makes it hard to think.

All John knows is that he doesn’t want this—whatever _this_ is—to stop, so he decides to keep on talking. “Apis mellifera lamarckii,” he says as Sherlock wriggles in his seat some more, “the native honeybee of Egypt. It’s a pretty impressive insect, really.” He eats another chip, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. “Over the centuries, it’s adapted to the climate of Egypt and has become immune to most diseases.”

Sherlock clears his throat. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “You know... about bees.”

“I do. I’m a devoted bee scholar.” Careful to keep his features blank, John wills himself not to smile. He’s being facetious, of course—he’d only read a few articles, but he’s so thankful he did, because those articles seem to be paying off, now.

Sherlock looks shocked at first. His lips are parted slightly; but then the very corners of his eyes wrinkle a bit, and the edges of his mouth twitch with barely-veiled amusement. He ducks his chin down to hide his face from view, tracing curlicues on the slick wood of the table with the tip of his finger. John stops himself from leaning down to get a good look at whatever expression Sherlock is working so hard to hide.

 “You apparently know about bees as well.” John says, and tries not to think about the fact that Sherlock is somehow beautiful even when John can’t see the front half of him.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds, returning eye contact. “A great deal, actually. I’ve studied their habits and behaviours since I was a child.” Sherlock tucks a curl behind his ear, but it falls back onto his cheek the second he removes his fingers. “As a secondary student, I spent two consecutive summers in California serving as research assistant to the professor of melittology at UC Berkeley.”

“Oh.” John feels something stirring in his stomach, and he doesn’t quite know what it is. It isn’t unpleasant. “You mean…you are _actually_ … a devoted bee scholar?”

Sherlock smiles, and there’s a shyness to it that John has never seen. “I suppose you could say that.”

John bursts out laughing. “Of course you are.” The expression on his face feels entirely too soft, entirely too revealing as he continues to meet Sherlock’s starlight eyes across the table. “That’s amazing.”

Sherlock blinks quickly. “You think so?” he asks with interest, gazing avidly at John.

“Yes,” John says without skipping a beat. “It’s incredible, actually.” He smiles, ignoring the fact that his tone is almost warm. “But I’d expect nothing less from you, you genius.” 

The very tips of Sherlock’s ears, almost hidden by his dark hair, flush scarlet at John’s words. He sits a little bit taller, the flush spreading as John just watches him, not saying anything. Sherlock looks… uncontainable. He’s so close to smiling, like there’s something inside him—big and bright and beautiful, and he’s trying his very hardest not to let it come out.  

John finds himself leaning unconsciously towards him in his seat. He can feel his own cheeks heating, now. He’s not entirely sure what he has done to make Sherlock act like this—but god, he yearns to keep doing it. 

“Pretty sure we’ve actually gone an entire three minutes without fighting,” John remarks with forced casualness, trying to make it seem like less of a big deal than it actually is.

Sherlock leans back into his seat before delivering a characteristic one word response: “Interesting.” He looks as though he wants to say more, but he only takes a short little breath through his open lips before finally glancing away.

As the table falls silent again, John mourns the loss of Sherlock’s gaze so immediately that he finds it troubling. In an effort to keep his mind elsewhere, he idly picks at his food. After a few moments, he glances back up and notices Sherlock staring at the pile of chips on his plate with a look of confused horror.

“What on earth are you eating?” Sherlock asks. His blush has dulled, which is a shame, but he appears to be no less engaged in John’s actions. 

“What?” John says, bemused. “You’re joking, right?”

Sherlock’s expression is blank. “Whatever it is, it looks repulsive.”

John frowns at him in bewilderment, as if he’s grown three heads, before he asks finally: “Are you even _British?”_

_“Obviously,”_ Sherlock drawls, sounding vaguely offended, but there’s a layer of puzzlement over his tone.

“It’s fish and chips, Sherlock.” John takes another bite, waving his hand above the mess of food. “You know. The staple of the average British diet?” 

Sherlock’s features pinch with distaste, and a thin line appears above his nose, and John finds himself grinning at how clueless this absolute genius is.

“Smells good, doesn’t it,” John says lightly, wiggling his eyebrows and leaning back in his chair.

“No,” Sherlock promptly says. He scoffs—an overblown gesture—but stares back at John’s plate. “It smells disgusting.” There’s a slight upward lilt to the end of the word that almost turns it into a question, and he continues to stare at the plate with an intense curiosity.

“Go ahead.” John gestures towards the plate with his chin. “Try it. We can say it’s for scientific purposes.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes once more, leaning across the table to take a chip from John’s plate. He holds it up between two long fingers, scrutinizing it closely. Then, he lifts it to his nose, sniffs it a few times, and delicately touches the tip of his tongue to it.

“For Christ’s sake, you posh arsehole.” John rests his elbow on the table, placing his chin in his hand. “Just _eat_ it.”

Sherlock looks back up at him doubtfully, but pops the chip into his mouth. He begins to chew slowly, falling very deep into thought before John’s eyes.

“Well?” John asks, his throat suddenly dry.

Sherlock looks curious and undecided as he _very slowly_ licks the salt off of his fingertips. “Not absolutely awful, Doctor,” he finally proclaims with the air of someone announcing they’ve just cured cancer. “If there are no other options at your disposal.”

Sherlock continues to make a show of licking the salt from his long fingers, and John clears his throat as he looks away. Christ. Who the hell takes that much time to salivate over their own phalanges?

“Why do you insist on calling me Doctor, by the way?” John asks, hoping to steer his focus off the image in front of him. “I’ve got an actual name, you know.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock grins at him, wide and evil and cunning. “I do it because it annoys you.”

John exhales a short breath of laughter and shakes his head. “You’re a dick, you know that?” he says, but there’s a noticeable lack of venom in his voice. 

“Yep,” Sherlock replies, licking the salt off his lips, leaving a mask of saliva over the bottom one. “I know that.”

John stares at him for a moment. Sherlock stares back, completely unfazed.

”Look,” John says, glancing downwards at the table, trying to remember that he’s supposed to _hate_ this man. I know neither one of us is looking forward to this art project, but I guess we ought to talk details. I mean, our marks will suffer if we don’t.”

”Yes, I suppose we should,” Sherlock says, wilting a bit. 

“I’m pretty sure the girls won’t let us leave until we’ve set up an appointment.” John hopes his apprehension isn’t obvious. 

Sherlock sighs. “Fine. We’ll do it at mine. Thursday, six PM.”

John narrows his eyes at him. “Why can’t we do it at mine?”

“You live with other people,” Sherlock says. “And that doesn’t work for me.”

John frowns. “And what if Thursday doesn’t work for _me?”_

“You’ll figure something out,” Sherlock says flippantly, and John fights the urge to throw a chip at his head. Having a conversation with this boy is more exhausting than a four hour rugby match.

“Right,” John huffs. “So I’m supposed to drop everything and do your bidding whenever you want me to? Is that it? Because—”

“Yes, Doctor,” Sherlock interrupts with the ghost of a smirk. “You are. Unless, of course, you want to fail this class.”

John huffs again, with more feeling this time. He can’t control himself; he picks up the greasiest chip from his plate, and launches it straight at Sherlock’s stupid face.

Sherlock gasps dramatically, looking a bit stunned as it bounces off his forehead and lands on the table. He glares at John. “Oh, that was immature, even for you.”

John laughs as Sherlock shudders. He peers at John and slowly reaches his hand downwards to pick up the chip that had fallen onto the table.

John slinks back into his seat, holding his hands up in defence. He knows what Sherlock is thinking; he can see it plain as day written across his pretty face.

“Before you throw that at me, Sherlock,” John warns in a low tone, “remember, I’ve got an entire _plate_ of them left.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But if I catch some sort of rare disease from this disgusting thing, I’m blaming you.”

“I certainly hope that happens,” John says pleasantly. “And I’d be happy to take the blame for it. In fact...” He scoops a handful of chips from his plate. “Why don’t I do something to increase the odds?”

“You’re _insane,”_ Sherlock says. But John doesn’t back off—instead, he scoots a little bit closer in his chair.

“No... God, please!” Sherlock’s eyes widen as he flinches backwards. 

“Alright. Fine.” John laughs, and desists, satisfied with getting Sherlock to say please for what could easily be the first time in his entire life. “I’ll agree not to launch these chips in your face,” he says in a cunning tone, “but in exchange, you’ve got to give me your phone number.”

John is sort of astonished at his own bravery; he hadn’t really thought, hadn’t really considered, just blurted the first thing that had come to mind. He knows what will happen. Sherlock will scoff, and roll his eyes, and turn away, and that will be that.

Except… that isn’t what happens at all. Sherlock huffs, but holds out a hand across the little table. “Well, of course. We’ll need to be in contact during the planning of our sessions.”

John hopes he doesn’t look as surprised or excited as he feels. “Yeah,” he says. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “Exactly.” He reaches in his pocket to dig out his mobile, and he shoves it over to Sherlock. “Here.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and takes John’s mobile, keeping his eyes fixed on John as their fingers brush. They both hold onto the little square of black plastic and glass until Sherlock clears his throat lightly, and John lets go with a start.

It’s fascinating, watching as Sherlock’s big, dexterous hands flick through the apps on John’s phone until he gets to the place where he can enter his number in. He does so at an inhuman speed, fingers flying over the keyboard, barely glancing down. 

After a moment, Sherlock says, “Hm,” and hands John’s phone back. The screen is still pulled up to his contact information, and John laughs when he sees it.

“Sherlock Holmes: Model,” John reads out loud. “Great,” John says, rolling his eyes. He supposes it’s true, since he will be modelling for John for the art project. Fuck.

John pockets his mobile, and eats another chip, and contemplates again just how much this is going to be hell.

There is another moment of silence at their table. John knows what Sherlock is going to ask; it’s the only logical next question, after all.

“Ah, Doctor. May I—that is, it might be conducive to our… our working relationship as students if I…”

“Yes, Sherlock?” John asks mildly.

Sherlock looks supremely horrified at the garbled mess he’s making of this sentence. It’s amusing and slightly endearing. “I should have your mobile number as well, Doctor.”

Out of the corner of John’s eye, he sees Molly and Irene approaching, their clasped hands swinging between them as Irene laughs at something Molly has said. Perfect. Maybe he can mess with Sherlock a bit. It’ll be nice to have the upper hand in a conversation with him, for once. “Right. My number.” John looks down at his mobile. “I’ll make sure to text it to you later.”

“But—” Sherlock begins to argue, but John simply grins back. “I’ll bring the paint brushes and easels, you bring the paint. See you Thursday.”  

Sherlock looks at him, his mouth hanging open just wide enough for John to see the glint of white teeth beyond his lips. Sherlock is disgruntled, but undeniably amused.

John stands up to walk to the bar and pay for his meal, just as Molly and Irene return to the table.

Molly lifts an eyebrow at John, as if to ask how it went, and he smiles lightly at her, but says nothing. What would he even say? _This sexy berk is a child and frankly I cannot wait to have an excuse to sit there and stare at him for hours and hours. Ta._ Might not go over well.

So he just waves back at all of them, ignoring the weight of Sherlock’s gaze across his entire body, and makes his way up to the cashier.

The cashier greets him, and John greets him back with a polite smile. Suddenly, he gets an idea, and the smile on his face stretches into an eager grin.

“Give me an extra order of chips.” John reaches into his pocket to grab his wallet. “The greasiest ones you’ve got. And send them over to the swanky bloke in the black coat over there.”

 

**********

Irene plops down into the chair across from Sherlock, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear. “You look marvellously, deliriously happy and not at all annoyed,” she says in a cheerful tone. “Did Dreamboat Watson treat you all right?”

Sherlock stares at her. “He threw a chip at my head and refused to give me his mobile number,” he says, feeling a bit stunned. “So unless that constitutes ‘treating me alright,’ then no.”

Irene and Molly both gasp, and Molly grabs Irene on the forearm. “You _asked him for his number?”_ Molly squeals as Irene fans herself with one hand. 

“No—I—it’s for a _project,”_ he snaps. His cheeks are warm, and he hopes he isn’t blushing. No, he is definitely not blushing.

“Right,” Irene says. “But you _asked,_ so that must mean you had an actual _conversation._ And that’s a step in the right direction.”

“There is no… _right direction,”_ Sherlock snaps. “I’m not... trying to get anywhere. This project stands between me and my mark for the course. It’s a means to an end, so I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it involves spending time with that annoying imbecile and his blue irises.”

“Once again, I will mention that you have _memorised the colour of his eyes,”_ Irene says with an expansive sweeping gesture. “You could probably paint him in your sleep.”

“God, no.” Sherlock says. He’s lying. He could easily do that. But only because he’s _highly intelligent_ and has a _fantastic memory,_ and if he’d memorised every detail of John’s appearance, it was purely by accident. “No.”

A waiter approaches their table with a gigantic pile of steaming, hot, greasy chips, plopping it down onto the table. “Compliments of the young man who just left,” he says, and Irene and Molly both stifle a laugh.

“Ooooh,” Irene coos. “He’s got it _bad_ for you, Sweetheart.”

“Yep,” Molly agrees, nodding vigorously. “First he’s sending you chips, next it’s love texts, and then you’re basically married.”

“Did I mention that I really, really dislike the both of you right now?” Sherlock says. “And if you aren’t careful, I’m going to dump this plate into your laps.”

“No,” Molly interjects. “Waste of chips. Pass ‘em here.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, pushing the plate over to Molly. He suddenly understands why she and that grotesque, pompous git are best friends.

“I’m going home,” he says with a huff. “I hope those chips give you a horrible gastrointestinal disturbance.”

“Bye, Love,” Molly chirps.

“Goodnight, Dear. Dream of Doctor Dreamboat for me, and tell me about it in the morning.” 

“For me to do that, I’d have to be speaking to you, and as of now, we are officially _no longer on speaking terms.”_ Sherlock stands, glares at them both, and then marches out the door.

Molly and Irene sigh happily. “Young love,” Molly says in a sing-song voice, reaching her hand to squeeze Irene’s.

“Our boys are growing up,” Irene says. “I’d say our plan was a success.”

They grin, and eat the chips contentedly.

********** 

The night air is crisp and frigid in Sherlock’s chest as he leans against the brick wall of the pub. He raises a cigarette to his lips, taking a drag and expelling the smoke so that it lingers about him in a pale grey cloud.

_They had talked about bees._

The words exchanged while the two of them were seated at that plebeian establishment run circles through his mind, unrelenting in their intensity, ambiguous in their meaning. If Sherlock had been the one to observe such a conversation, he would have deemed it some kind of flirtation—a strange, twisted flirtation, but flirtation nonetheless.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps at himself, kneading at his temples in the hopes that his monstrous headache will abate.

This is _John Watson_ he’s thinking about. The two of them _hate_ one another, a hatred that is burning, overflowing with a fervency that Sherlock had never felt before.

And yet, they’d had a perfectly normal conversation about bees. Bees. _Bees._ And Sherlock can’t say that he despised it.

**********

It hits John at the most random times over the next few days: in history class, at lunch, in the middle of the night.

He had actually _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes.

John breaks out into a cold sweat when he thinks of it. He hadn’t even realised it was happening as the words fell out of his mouth. It isn’t like the things they talked about were the most conventional flirting topics—bees and Egypt and chip wars—but the fact remains that flirting it most certainly had been. And John sort of wants to die from the humiliation.

He blames it on Sherlock’s stupid, pretty face. It had just been hovering there, close and otherworldly and so incredibly _present._ John had diverted to the mode he always does when confronted with someone (physically) lovely, and out the charm had come.

Although one could hardly call that charm, really. And if it had been anyone else, John wouldn’t be worried about it seeming like flirting. But it isn’t anyone else. It’s _Sherlock Sodding Holmes,_ the most observant man on campus. There’s no way he didn’t pick up on every little nuance of emotion that flowed across John’s face that night.

And today is Wednesday, which means tomorrow is Thursday, and Thursday is going to be the worst day of John Watson’s life. Because John has to go over to Sherlock’s fucking flat. He will have to sit there next to him, spending hours trying to fill the awkward silences between the brush strokes. He will have to stare and stare and stare at Sherlock, and transcribe his stunning features exactly the way he sees them.

On a piece of canvas for all the world to view.

For all the world to read into.

He’s really royally screwed.


	5. Dreamy McDreamy and Dreamier McDreamier Are Dreamy Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s 6:00 and John hasn’t arrived. Sherlock puts on a second nicotine patch._

Sherlock doesn’t want to do this.

It’s 5:54 on Thursday evening, and John Watson is on his way to the flat, and Sherlock _does not want to do this._

_How, exactly,_  Sherlock wonders, _does one prepare their flat for a houseguest, when said houseguest is one's own mortal enemy?_ Sherlock wonders if he should make tea. Sherlock wonders if he should make tea and then poison it. Sherlock wonders if he should make tea and then poison it and then go ahead and drink it, just to get it all over with.

Sherlock wonders if he should have straightened up the flat.

It’s 5:56 and he peels off his nicotine patch, replacing it with a new one.

Sherlock wonders if he is dressing appropriately for the situation at hand. Pulling on his white  button-up, he looks himself over in the mirror. If he’s overdoing it, it’s certainly not for John’s sake; he simply doesn’t want his portrait to look bad.

Will John try to talk to him again? Should he—heaven forbid—try to talk to John? God, Sherlock hates making conversation, unless it’s about corpses or bees. And John is probably not redundant enough to want to have another bee conversation (although Sherlock wouldn’t mind), and it’s doubtful John will want to talk about dead bodies.

It’s 5:58 and Sherlock wonders if he remembered to put away the jar of thumbs on the kitchen table.

He’s pretty sure he didn’t.

But it’s fine. John won’t be going into the kitchen, anyway. Into the flat, paint for a while, and out. A formal academic transaction, nothing more.

Sherlock wonders what he should be doing the moment John arrives. Should he be sitting in his armchair, acting casual? Should he be on his laptop, or watching the telly, or reading a book about art?

Sherlock wonders why he wonders so much.

It’s 6:00 and John hasn’t arrived. Sherlock puts on a second nicotine patch.

 

***

 

John stands outside the door to Sherlock’s flat, pulse rocketing through his veins.

When he’d arrived at the front door, a nice older woman had answered, showing him into the darkened hallway with an enormous smile. “Ooooh, you’re here to see Sherlock? How lovely!” she’d cooed, with much more enthusiasm than the situation warranted.

“A school project,” John had said a little too desperately. “I’m just here... for a school project.”

She had smiled and tutted, eyes glittering with something that made John a bit uneasy, and ushered him up the stairs, ignoring his protestations.

He doesn’t even know quite what he had been protesting.

And now _here John is._ Right at Sherlock’s door, too nervous (nervous? Nervous) to even knock for fear of what awaits him on the other side.

_It’s only Sherlock Holmes._ He’s faced Sherlock many times; he’s _beaten_ him, for god’s sake, overtaken him at the top of the class. He knows that Sherlock is a giant dickhead, and that he’s gorgeous, and he knows how to operate around him. He _does._

Doesn’t he?

Enough. He’s been dithering out here for at least a full minute, and John Watson doesn’t _dither._

Taking a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and lifting a hand, he knocks.

God, he thinks. Maybe he doesn’t.

 

***

 

Sherlock is wholly, intensely, and immediately drawn to the jumper John is wearing as he greets him at the door of his flat.

It makes absolutely no sense.

Material: wool and cotton blend. Fit: Accentuating the shape of John Watson’s shoulders, sitting snugly at the midriff. Colour: deep shade of royal blue, like that of a bluefire jellyfish, or lapis lazuli, or sapphire, or John Watson’s eyes.

Sherlock has despised John’s jumpers in fifty-eight of fifty-eight occasions. And yet, he finds that he doesn’t mind _this_ one at all. _At. All._ It’s a fact that he finds more than somewhat unsettling.

“Evening,” John says, with somewhat forced enthusiasm, as the silence between them stretches thin and awkward.

Sherlock doesn’t respond; his eyes flicker over John, taking in as many details as his distracted transport will allow. Hair: short (cut within the past 36 hours). Combed to the right (left-handed). Arms: biceps, forearms muscular from regular rugby practice.

John Watson stares back at him (slightly vexed; polite salutation ignored)—his eyes incandescent against the azure material of this cursed jumper.

_“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock realises he’s been staring, though he’s quite unsure of how long, and also unsure of how long John has been talking. Eyes fluttering, he inhales sharply, pulling himself from his thoughts.

“Doc—” Sherlock’s voice is not at all as firm as he’d intended. (Requires further research.) He clears his throat and tries again. “Doctor,” he repeats. “You’re late.”

 

***

 

The flat is small, and to John, the walls feel much too crowded to contain someone as uncontainable as Sherlock Holmes.

And yet, there Sherlock is, contained _somehow._ Staring back at him, expression blank and set. Slim torso clothed in a crisp, snow-white dress shirt, his dark curls elegantly framing his face.

John fights himself to keep from saying all the things that immediately come to mind.

_Fucking Hell, you’re gorgeous._

_I want to run my hands through those thick, lovely curls._

_Also: your arse is utterly phenomenal._

Because those are not things that enemies say to one another. So, instead, he mutters an awkward hello.

Grey eyes unblinking, Sherlock stares back at him, and the silence continues to stretch on.

John shifts the bag of paintbrushes from one hand to the other, and waits. He hates Sherlock for looking so bloody amazing tonight, and hates himself for not being able to tear his eyes away.

When Sherlock finally speaks, it’s only to inform John that he’s late.

John exhales a small, disbelieving laugh. So, this is how it’s going to be, then? “Sherlock, two minutes late is hardly—”

Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow at him. “Three minutes and twenty-two seconds.” It’s clear that he’s entirely serious about his accusation, and entirely annoyed that he has to say something about it.

John hopes the way he rolls his eyes at Sherlock is more eloquent than any argument he could make.

“Well, your Highness, if you’re waiting for an apology, I’m afraid you’re not going to get one. But since you had to wait for such a long time, I’ll make it up to you—” He holds the paint brushes out and dumps them into Sherlock’s arms. “—by letting you paint first.”

 

***

 

“No,” Sherlock says. The word is too plain to be considered bold. “I can’t,” he adds, as he fumbles with the armful of worthless paintbrushes.

“Why not?” John asks. Indignant. He peers at Sherlock, curious, eyes unrelenting.

Sherlock has always been fascinated by John’s eyes, for completely valid reasons he can’t quite recall—but today, they’re different, somehow. Brighter. Deeper. More intense.

It’s got to be the cursed blue jumper. The way it accentuates John’s irises—compelling, mesmerising with their deep sapphire shades. Sherlock is sure that he actually hates this jumper more than any of John’s others.

John Watson’s eyes: two precious jewels, or two pieces of afternoon sky.

Sherlock’s heart: dangerously close to beating out of his chest.

“I can’t paint you while you’re wearing that jumper,” he unceremoniously informs John. He feels dizzy, as if he’s teetering at the edge of a cliff; not sure of how he got there, or even how to step back.

“Sherlock. Are you serious?” John’s expression: a telling mix of confusion and disbelief that he often wears when looking at Sherlock; one side of his mouth pulled up, eyebrows raised, mouth open just a sliver.

“I get it,” John says, pulling at the sleeves of his jumper (does he realise what he’s doing?). “You’re posh, rich, and the most stylish person in the _universe,_ and you disapprove of my clothing choices. But can’t you think of _anything_ else to insult me about?”

“Shall I make you a list?” Sherlock scoffs, throwing John a disparaging look, eyes wandering from his head to his shoes. It occurs to him that he’d made John Watson angry, and that, regrettably, it hadn’t been intentional.

Sherlock sternly reminds himself that he can’t continue to make errors like this—he and John are _enemies,_ in every sense of the word. And allowing oneself to be annihilated by the colour of another’s irises is, decidedly, not the way that enemies work.

But then John steps forward, and Sherlock freezes. His gaze catches his, and _John’s_ eyes begin to wander now; from Sherlock’s face, to his torso, down his legs, and back up again.

He can hear John breathing, quiet and intense in the deafening silence; his own skin flames, gently burning under the fervent blue of John’s eyes.

John smirks again, and he doesn’t look away; it’s as if he can feel Sherlock’s weakening resolve. He peels Sherlock’s arms apart and takes the bag of paintbrushes deliberately in one hand. The strap of the bag catches on Sherlock’s fingers, and, movement jostling, the brushes spill, landing on the floor.  

The moment—if one can even call it that—is broken.

John’s eyes move away quickly, sliding to where the brushes now lie scattered at their feet. “Nice job, Genius,” he says with half-hearted vitriol.

“I hardly think those cheap excuses for art supplies are any less useful on the floor,” Sherlock says blandly. He feels dizzy as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

John lets out a long-suffering sigh, still not looking at him. “You’re a pain in the arse,” he says, crouching down to pick them up.

Sherlock watches.

“Well, then,” John says as he stands. “I suppose we should get on with it.” He looks to Sherlock again, obviously trying to gauge his reaction, but Sherlock makes sure his face remains still and expressionless.

“Go sit down, Sherlock,” John commands lightly.

Oh.

What?

“Pardon?” Sherlock blinks excessively, and raises an eyebrow. “Did you just... tell me what to do in my own flat, Doctor?”

John sighs and groans. _“Sherlock.”_ Dramatic. “Do you really have to turn everything into a fight? Can’t you just… go sit down so we can get this over with?”

Sherlock watches him for a long time. He can tell it unsettles John, but he’s not immediately sure why. Slowly, Sherlock unfolds his arms and lets them hang at his sides as he scans John's features once more.

Shallow, irregular breathing. Vague increase of speed within the past thirty seconds. Why? No symptoms of physical exertion. No apparent signs of illness or arrhythmia. No history of tobacco use. Fingers: lightly tapping against the thumb (repetitive pattern, 79 beats per minute). Shifting his weight from one leg to the other in a barely-there movement. Mouth: left corner twitching faintly (speck of mustard, late lunch, modest appetite).

Apprehension. Anxiety. Stubborn, obstinate, audacious John Watson. Barely apparent, but not evading Sherlock’s observations.

“Sherlock, don’t do that,” John says a tad bit pleadingly. He wets his bottom lip; a reflexive movement that has more meanings than Sherlock can decipher.

“Stop what?” he asks obstinately.

“That…” John points at him, eyes wide. “You’re trying to deduce me, Sherlock. I can tell.”

“I’m simply trying to work something out,” Sherlock says calmly. It’s the truth. “Because you’re nervous, and I’d like to know why.”

 

***

 

John gives Sherlock a vaguely belligerent look from under his eyebrows. “Am not.”

John isn’t very convincing.

Sherlock flashes him a satisfied smile. He’s never wrong, is he?  

“Not nervous, Sherlock,” John maintains; his voice unsteady, palms sweating. Yeah, he knows he can’t win this one.

Especially when Sherlock looks him up and down, gaze searing. John swallows. He knows exactly what’s going to happen next.

_Shit._

“Your whole stance is filled with tension,” Sherlock says, “from your fists, to your jaw—” John flinches slightly as Sherlock’s hand hovers near John’s jawbone to enhance the evidence. “Your breathing is heavy and irregular,” Sherlock continues, passing a palm in front of John’s mouth, a hair’s breadth away from his chest.

John doesn’t back away as Sherlock leans continuously closer. So close that John can smell him: the honey, the tobacco, the coffee. John breathes deeply, more deeply than he has any need to, dizzy with the scent of Sherlock, the sight of him.

“Your voice is low and regulated in a way that strays from your natural cadence.” Sherlock almost, _almost,_ touches the leaping pulse at the base of John’s throat. “Your neck—” Warm skin, barely felt beneath Sherlock’s fingers. “—and your cheeks—are flushed.”

John presses his palms flat against his thighs, swallowing tightly. Jesus Christ. He’s going to need to pull himself together. Endeavouring to remain as calm as possible, he tilts his head back, regarding Sherlock with a forced casualness that couldn’t be further from what he actually feels.

_“So.”_ Sherlock’s eyes shift over John’s face like dappled shadows as he smugly crosses his arms over his chest once more. “Doctor: why are you nervous?”

There’s nothing John can do to convince Sherlock that he’s anything but worked up, but that doesn’t mean he needs to know the reason why: that John’s attraction to him is so all-consuming that he can’t simply stand here, staring at Sherlock for hours, without approaching dire consequences.

“I worry about making your portrait look too good,” John jokes, although it feels uncomfortably close to the truth. “Might go to your head, and I can’t bear for you to be more insufferable than you already are.”

Sherlock stares back at John with a regal air, apparently _somehow_ unaware that John is being insincere. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Something tells me you’re a horrible painter.”

John winces inwardly. Yes. Probably. That’s definitely probably true. God, he really shouldn’t be in this class.

“Right,” John says. “Sit down, then, so that we can begin the exciting process of ruining your face.” He nods—nervous habit—and points in an awkward semblance of finger guns in Sherlock’s general direction. He realises immediately what he’s done, and pulls his hands down quickly, shoving them into his pockets.

Sherlock gives John a look of unadulterated disgust over his crossed arms, brow furrowed as he stares John down. John wonders if it’s possible to die of embarrassment.

“Sit _down,_ Sherlock,” John repeats, hoping that if he’s forceful enough, the events of the last ten seconds will be forgotten, and never _ever_ brought up again.

And Sherlock is normally not one to let things go. Which is why John is so surprised when Sherlock—still watching him intently—allows the look of distaste to fade as his rigid body softens. After peering at him for a few seconds, he huffs loudly, turns himself around, and walks to an armchair to sit down.

 

***

 

John stands in front of Sherlock, adjusting the easel and mixing up the paint as he tries to make himself comfortable in his chair.

Sherlock already wants this to be over.

John has been at his flat for less than ten minutes, and Sherlock isn’t sure what he’d expected, but he has never been more uncomfortable in his life. Did he honestly think John was just going to burst in rattling off more facts about bees? No, he’d only marched in being all nervous and commanding and wearing that terrible _jumper_ that causes Sherlock to feel things—squirming, warm, embarrassing things, deep down in his stomach.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, growing antsy with impatience, continuing to scowl as John sets up the equipment. Trying not to watch every single thing John is doing, he pulls his legs into himself. He wraps his arms around them, rests his head on his knees, and forces himself to stare at the floor.

There is silence.

After what seems like forever, he sighs deeply, pulling his gaze from his lap towards John. He prepares to deliver some sort of insulting remark about him being too much of an idiot to properly set up an easel.  

But as he opens his mouth to speak, he’s met with John’s deep blue eyes; his warm, reassuring smile; and the words dry up on Sherlock’s tongue. Why, oh _why,_ is John smiling at him like that? Why is he smiling at him _at all?_ He’s tangling things up, and flipping things on their heads, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to _feel_ anymore.

“Okay, then,” John says. Softly. Pleasantly. “You ready?”

And there’s nothing Sherlock can do to argue.  

 

***

 

As John begins to paint, he stares and stares at Sherlock. The stark, elegant line of his profile; the low yellow light of the flat washing his skin in a warm golden glow. His dark curls, framing his face in an irresistibly soft-looking cloud; mercurial eyes, subtly shifting, alighting on everything in the room but John.

In fact, Sherlock seems to keep his eyes firmly off of John, which John is more than fine with; it gives him time to watch Sherlock at his leisure without the embarrassment of being caught. Sherlock Holmes is a captivating subject, a captivating man—and John is quite grateful that, in this case, staring is actually a requirement.

John knows he wears his emotions plainly on his face, and there’s no denying it—Sherlock has the ability to read him like a book.

And though John can’t seem to fight this attraction to Sherlock, he _surely_ can hide it. He’s got to.

He would be utterly humiliated if Sherlock—or _anyone_ —were to find out about this attraction. After all the time he’s spent going on and on about how much he hates Sherlock (and he does, he truly does), he’d be given hell about it until the end of time.

For some reason, Sherlock seems nervous as well; haughty and uncomfortable and out of place, even in his own home. He is stiff and icy and small in his armchair, much different from the person John had seen in that crowded pub, smiling and blushing about bees.

Sherlock’s mouth is turned downwards at the corners, and he’s staring at the strange wallpaper on the opposite wall as if it has personally offended him.

John can’t stand awkward silences, and he also can’t stand the thought of having to paint a pouting Sherlock. He clears his throat, speaking carefully. “Sherlock. Is this expression you’re wearing now... the expression you want conveyed in your portrait?”

Sherlock’s gaze slides slowly to John, although his stoney expression does not change. “Why? Is it not representative of my normal aesthetic?”

“Oh, it definitely is,” John agrees, nodding. “But it would be a shame to have to paint you like that.”

“Like what?” Sherlock narrows his eyes at him.

John smiles. “Oh, you know. I just think it would be better to paint you in a way that enhances your zygomatic bones.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

John laughs. “Yeah. It would be an absolute shame to hide those.” He continues to paint. “Here, turn to the side a bit more, so I can see your remus and mandible…”

Sherlock huffs, but a flash of understanding and humour is in his eyes. “Upcoming anatomy test, Doctor?”

“Yeah,” John confesses. “But you do have fantastic zygomatic bones, and it would be an disservice to humanity not to have them painted.”

He knows it may be overdoing it a bit, but the way Sherlock gives John one of those tiny, stifled, absurdly pleased almost-smiles, convinces John that he’s made the right decision.

“Well, alright,” Sherlock says softly, still battling a grin. “I suppose, if it’s for the sake of humanity...” He tilts his head outward, to the side a bit, and he finally seems somewhat relaxed.

John laughs. “Yes. Good. Just like that,” he says, taking in the sight before him. _“Perfect.”_ His eyes fall onto the mixture of paint before he brings the brush back to the easel.  

 

***

 

_“Perfect,”_ John had said.  

And oh. Now John is laughing.

There is something about John Watson when he’s not angry at you—something Sherlock feels in the hollow of his chest.

His entire face lights up when he laughs, grin wide and warm and welcoming. His eyes brighten and crinkle at the corners. Sherlock looks at John and feels a glow in his chest, swallowing down an answering laugh that threatens to rise to the surface.

It’s magnetic.

Sherlock’s stomach flutters, and in that moment, he realises that he wants John to continue _not being angry._ It’s absolutely mystifying.

As the evening goes on, what’s even more mind-boggling is the way in which the conversation seems to flow almost effortlessly. John continues to paint, Sherlock is calmer, and they talk about everything and nothing.

“Victor Trevor may be a talented artist, but his actual taste in art is as regrettable as his taste in everything else,” Sherlock scoffs sometime later.

“You know about his... tastes?” John asks, glancing at Sherlock sideways, raising one blond eyebrow hesitantly. “Not that it matters to me, but…”

“I once saw him at the cafe,” Sherlock says swiftly, unsure of why he feels the need to clear up any implications. “He ordered some blended coffee monstrosity and attempted to initiate a conversation with me on the brush strokes of Manet. It was droll, deadpan, and within ten seconds, I became so incredibly bored I wanted to weep.”

“Sounds about right,” John says, expression clearing, and that terrible (wonderful) laugh fills the space between them once more.

 

***

 

After awhile, John draws his paintbrush away from his canvas and stares down at it, wholly unsatisfied.

“Please tell me you’re not _actually_ ruining my face,” Sherlock says, only partly teasing.

“Errr…” John says. He glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, shoulders held a little bit tenser than usual.

Oh, no. “Let me see,” Sherlock insists automatically, pressing down on the arms of his chair and lifting himself halfway off of the seat.

John makes a shoo-ing gesture at Sherlock with both of his hands, trying to hold in a laugh.  “No. No, you’re not allowed to see it before I’m finished.”

“Oh, God.” Sherlock lets himself fall dramatically back into his seat, head tipped back, arms flung out over the sides of the chair. “It must be horrific.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” John says with another laugh. He tugs on the sleeves of his jumper again. “But I’d say it’s obvious I’m not enrolled in this course because of my artistic talent. Just... let me have my scholarship so I can get out of here and never have to take another art course again.”

Sherlock feels his eyebrows climbing to his hairline as he peers back at John. _“Your_ scholarship?”

“Yeah,” John says casually, but he’s barely suppressing a grin. He selects another worthless paintbrush. _“My_ scholarship. You do remember that I’m currently at the top of the class, right?”

Sherlock grins in return. Here they are, openly teasing one another, and it’s actually a little bit funny. How and when did that happen?

“You’ve got your fifteen minutes of fame,” Sherlock says a little breathlessly. He’s never been able to joke with someone like this without them running away in tears, but John seems to actually appreciate his sense of humour. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I _am_ enjoying it,” John teases gently. “Honestly, it’s fantastic seeing you _not_ be the absolute best at everything for once.” He peeks over the easel, pausing to smile sunnily at him, and Sherlock feels his breath catch in his lungs.

 

***

 

Throughout their meandering conversation, John lets his eyes wander around the eccentric room. He’s curious—maybe a bit fascinated, if he’s being honest; he finds himself wanting to know as much as he can about what makes Sherlock Holmes tick.

The clutter of the flat mirrors what John assumes might be the clutter in the great genius’ mind: a wide assortment of books stacked on every available surface, at least three visible laptops (all expensive), a microscope and various items that look to be a part of an elaborate science experiment, and what appears to be a human skull perched jauntily on the mantel.

“Friend of yours?” John asks, pointing to the skull. He isn’t really sure if he’s joking or not.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds with a smirk. “And when I say ‘friend’…”

“No explanation needed,” John says. “I feel as though spending an extended amount of time  with you would have the same effect on any—” Before John can finish his sentence, he notices some French books lined up on the mantel, and his train of thought abruptly falters.

“—you study French?” John sounds more eager than he’d planned, but he’s got a weakness for that beautiful language, especially when it’s being spoken by beautiful people.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, eyeing John dubiously. “I’ve studied French since I was a child.” He hesitates, looking like he might want to say more, but then subsides, still watching John with large silver eyes.

“That’s amazing,” John gives Sherlock another smile, more encouraging, this time. “Speak in French for me.”

Sherlock’s ears go that familiar shade of red they seem to turn when John pays him a compliment. He’s almost bashful when he looks up at John beneath his eyelashes, a soft smile on his lips, and murmurs, “Docteur.”

He pauses for a moment with a questioning lift to his eyebrows, as if waiting to make sure it’s ok for him to proceed. John nods, and motions for him to continue.

John hadn't actually expected for Sherlock to continue, but he definitely does not want him to stop. Because God help him, it’s fucking hot.

Besides—little does Sherlock know—John’s French is _excellent_ as well.

"Je ne sais pas vraiment quoi dire,” Sherlock begins, spreading his hands out in front of him.

_(I don’t really know what to say...)_

“...Ce qui est rare dans mon cas, parce que j'ai d'habitude une longue liste d'insultes que je serais ravis de te balancer à la figure.”

_(...which is a rarity for me, because I normally have a long list of insults I’d happily throw in your face.)_

Sherlock looks down, breaking away from John’s gaze.

“Mais là, tout de suite, j'ai l'impression qu'aucune ne me vient en tête.”

_(At the moment, I can’t think of a single one.)_

The sound of the language pouring out Sherlock’s deep baritone is stunning, sweet, and sensual. His accent is flawless, his pronunciation impeccable. And without the perceived hindrance of actual understanding between him and John, he’s become more bold. More honest. Less guarded.

John’s pulse beats faster and faster, but he keeps his expression carefully blank as he listens.

“C'est assez déconcertant de se retrouver sans voix de cette manière.”

_(It’s quite unnerving to be speechless in such a manner.)_

With a tiny half-smile, he locks eyes with John, and takes a breath before continuing.

“Mais aujourd'hui, Docteur, tes yeux sont d'un bleu pareil à l'océan, et je sens que je pourrais m'y noyer.” 

( _But today, Doctor, your eyes are as blue as an ocean, and I feel that I may drown._ )

His eyes falter for a moment before returning to John’s.

”Et c’est pour ça que je ne suis pas mon moi habituel.”

_(Therefore, I’m not my usual self.)_

John can’t believe what he’s actually hearing, but the redness spreading over his face is far too obvious to hide. He wonders if he shouldn’t say anything, but he can’t seem to hold back.

John smiles, and the words roll softly and easily off of his tongue: “Ne laisse pas la peur de te noyer t'empêcher de nager.”

_(Don’t let the fear of drowning keep you from swimming.)_

Sherlock gasps, and then immediately works to rearrange his features back into his usual mask of cool indifference. He fails spectacularly. If anything, he’s even more flushed than before, and he’s leaning unconsciously forward in his chair as if to get closer to John.

“You...” Sherlock breathes. He clears his throat. Presses the fingers of one hand to his own dusky-pink lips. “You know French as well.” 

“A few words,” John says with a small grin. “I spent six weeks studying abroad in Lyon during secondary. But I mostly just know the insults.”

Sherlock’s smile widens despite his obvious efforts to curtail it. He’s still trying to hide his expression behind one hand, and it’s such an endearing move that John’s heart thumps twice, painfully. “I... I did not expect that.”

John shrugs. “Can’t deduce everything, I suppose.”

Sherlock stares at him. He has one of the most intense stares John has ever seen; it seems to reach and reach until John can _feel_ it, burning deep inside of him. “I could insult you in at least four different languages, you know,” Sherlock says, but his words aren’t malicious in the least.

“Only four?” John says. “Disappointed, to be honest.”

“Well,” Sherlock amends, “I could technically get the point across in at least a dozen, but my verb conjugations are a bit shaky.”

There’s a long silence, and neither of them seems to want to break it.  

“Over in the corner,” John says, clearing his throat. He needs to change the subject before he completely gives himself away. “You’ve got a... violin. Is that yours?”

“It is,” Sherlock replies slowly. He tips his head a little bit to the side. “Well, it is now. It used to belong to my grandmother.”

“You play?” John asks.

Sherlock smiles slightly. “I do,” he responds with a nod.

John swallows. He wants to—wants to… “Would you play something for me?” he asks softly.

He thinks Sherlock’s going to say no.

The answer is written in every line of Sherlock’s body. The immediate tightening of his shoulders; the way his eyes snap to John’s instead of casually perusing around the room; the flex of his long, pale hands against his knees. But then he relaxes a bit. Lets his shoulders fall. 

“Alright,” he says quietly.

He stands, planting one foot firmly in the centre of the coffee table and stepping over it like it’s nothing (the long-legged bastard). He kneels by the violin case, movements slowing into something like reverence as he removes the gleaming wooden instrument from the black velvet. He lifts the bow out, too, and tightens it with one deft turn of his wrist.

And then Sherlock rises. He slots the violin under his chin, keeping his back to John; his shoulders move like liquid under the thin material of his dress shirt, and his legs are spaced in a wide V on the carpet beneath his feet. He lifts the bow slowly, and sets it on the strings.

He begins to play.

It’s nothing that John’s ever heard before, but then that isn’t a surprise. He isn’t exactly well-versed in classical music. But the melody is soaring and visceral and haunting, and within the first twenty seconds of the piece, John is hooked.

Sherlock turns in gentle increments as he plays. John isn’t convinced that he’s even aware he’s doing it, because when he finally makes his way to face John, his eyelids are shut, eyelashes resting thick and black against his pale cheeks. His slim body sways slightly with the aching vibrato of the song; a barely-there movement that John finds himself mimicking unconsciously from his stance across the little room.

It’s beautiful.

Sherlock is beautiful.

A key change: John’s heart soars into his throat and he leans forward and stares, open-mouthed, at Sherlock. It’s impossible, he _knows_ it’s impossible, but… but the air seems to shiver around Sherlock’s form, to quiver and bend and dance with the subtle movements and the breathtaking melody emerging from this unfathomable man.

It comes to an end sooner than John wants it to. One note, sustained high and long, drawn out indefinitely until it fades into a whisper against John’s ears.

The room is still.

Crystalline.

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly. Like he’s coming awake—coming alive. His pupils are dilated, and his irises are glittering and impossible to name. When he looks at John, he smiles.

John’s face remains still. He doesn’t feel the urge to smile back at him; his expression is blank, all of his emotions having been drawn out of his body and into the melody that rang through the air.

“I’m going to paint you like that.” John says it as though it’s inevitable, and he’s got no other choice.

Sherlock blinks a few times at him, and he doesn’t disagree. His arms fall to his sides, violin tucked beneath one, bow hanging from the fingers of the other. And he looks at John, curiously, inquisitively. His eyes wander from John’s face (which he can’t look at for too long), and down to his jumper (the one that he hates) and then finally, down to the floor.

He stands there, utterly silent and utterly still. John begins to worry.

And then, still wordlessly, Sherlock raises his bow. He tucks the violin beneath his chin. He sets the bow onto the strings. He plays.

John dips his brush back into the paint.

 

***

 

It’s 9:25 PM on the same Thursday evening, and Sherlock doesn’t want John to leave.

How, exactly, Sherlock wonders, does one say goodbye to a houseguest, when said houseguest is your own mortal enemy?

Sherlock wonders if he should join John at the door; if he should offer to walk him downstairs. Should he offer him tea, or a handshake, or a jar of thumbs? Should he wrap his arms around his waist, bury his face in his neck, and inhale his scent?

He’s pretty sure he should not do that.

Using his best judgement, he follows John to the doorway, but continues to wonder and wonder.

John stops, turns, and gives him a curt nod. “Well,” he says with a quiet little smile. “This has, erm, this has been…”

“Yes.”

“Same time next week?” John asks weakly, but Sherlock can’t look him in the eye. He can’t.

“If you’re amenable.”

Sherlock can still feel John’s eyes burning into him, keen and bright as he braces himself with one hand on the lintel.

“I’ll see you in class, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, because it’s impossible for him to say anything else.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” John nods again, and shifts his weight from foot to foot before he finally turns to leave.

Sherlock grunts something incoherent as he closes the door, and he leans against the wall to catch his breath. In doing so, he realises three things: he’s smiling like a lunatic, he’s trembling like a leaf, and his chest is filled with sunshine.

He’s sure he’s never felt such a thing before, but he’s sure it’s got to do with John Watson. So he despises it. God, he despises it.

Because this is _John Watson,_ his enemy. John Watson, who hates him; who stands between Sherlock and his future plans. John Watson: insufferable, eagerly verbose rugby athlete with anger issues and more girlfriends than he can probably count. John Watson, who drives him to the brink of insanity; who calls him an idiot and a genius in the same breath. John Watson, who knows more about bees than the average medical student, and speaks French, and makes him feel things in the pit of his stomach.

And yet, here is Sherlock: smiling, trembling, and filled to the brim with hateful, despicable sunshine.

He sprawls himself out on the couch, rips off his nicotine patch, and fumbles in the drawer for a new one. He slaps it on, takes a deep breath, and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. His intention is to text Irene to inform her of his current bout of hysteria, but his treacherous fingers bring up John’s contact information instead.

He frowns at the screen as he spontaneously types out a text.

_I was not prepared for how much I did not entirely despise the painting session. -SH_ (Delete. Close app. Open app.)

_What else do you know about bees_ (Delete. Sigh. Stare blankly.)

_You’re annoying. -SH_ (Delete.)

_I hate you. -SH_ (Delete.)

_Dinner? -SH_ (Close app. Save draft. Sigh again.)

Sherlock jumps as his phone vibrates, and a text message pops up from Irene.

_Hey, Love. How’d it go with Doctor McDreamy?_

Sherlock’s face crinkles with discomfort as he swiftly enters a response.

_Not at all like I’d expected. -SH_ (Send. Another sigh—more dramatic—fling mobile across the room. Curl up, commence pouting and practising the art of vehement denial. More importantly, though: refuse to think about John Watson’s laugh, or the deep blue colour of his eyes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of thanks to our beloved [AmyWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amywings/) for the French translation! Sherlockisactuallyagirlsname! <3


	6. Debussy is a Proud Gay Papa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock huffs a humourless laugh into the sofa cushions._
> 
> John hadn’t realised. He never does.
> 
> Sherlock is always nervous and warm around him, too.

Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa with his arms and legs curled tightly against his chest.

At the moment, he’s very awake.

He hasn’t moved at all.

It’s not a comfortable position to be lying in, but there’s really nothing comfortable about the way he feels right now, anyway. 

Right now, he feels distinctly _un_ comfortable, like he’s on the verge of something big and important that he doesn’t quite understand yet. Right now, he feels tumultuous and hollow and rattling. Right now, he feels _cold._

It’s a noticeable difference from the way he’d felt last night after John had left. After Sherlock had curled up with his phone in his hand and closed his eyes. When he’d felt so incredibly _full;_ so warm and complete. And so—

Happy. God. He’d been so _happy_ last night.

And now he feels… dull. Heavy. Aching.

Perhaps, he thinks, he should just go back to sleep.

Huffing out an enormous sigh, Sherlock buries his face in the cushions and curls his arms tightly around a pillow he’s been squeezing.

Images of John from last night batter around his skull incessantly, and they are driving him absolutely  _mad._

First, the sitting room: John, standing before Sherlock with his galaxy-deep eyes full of wonder, and of something else Sherlock can’t quite name. Undeniably nervous in the face of Sherlock’s scrutiny, and yet so so _brave,_ as Sherlock’s hands had drifted over his warm body like butterflies afraid to alight.

Sherlock huffs a humourless laugh into the sofa cushions.

John hadn’t realised. He never does.

Sherlock is always nervous and warm around him, too.

The library: John, again. With angry-ocean eyes this time, a heat in his glance and a fury in his touch. Hovering over Sherlock, murmuring words that Sherlock had failed to hear over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. Sherlock’s throat had gone dry then, and it does so now. He swallows thickly.

John. Last night. Staring at Sherlock with unbridled admiration as he’d played his violin, something he’s never done for _anyone_ other than his family and his landlady. For just a minute, Sherlock had thought John was going to stand up and cross the room and _touch him,_ and he’d been at once exhilarated and terrified to the point of paralysis.

And now there’s just a hole in his chest, overflowing with heat—as if he’s lost a vital organ, and a flame has taken its place.

A thought enters Sherlock’s mind, and he bolts upwards with the force of it.

_He misses John Watson._

It _can’t_ be. There’s no way. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t _miss_ people, _especially_ people he doesn’t like, but he misses John, and it’s absolutely _hateful._

Just then, he hears someone rapping sharply on the door at the bottom of the staircase. His body is filled with a burst of anticipation.  

He listens. It’s only Irene, slightly early for their Friday morning tea.

His heart plummets from his throat, down into his stomach, as the sound of clicking heels echoes in the stairwell, pausing directly in front of his door.

“ _Go away,”_ he bellows. “I am currently indisposed, suffering an incurable ailment, and not accepting houseguests.”

But Irene, who seems to have tragically endured a sudden loss of hearing, swings open the door to his flat anyway.

“What a pouty mess you are,” she coos, her tone half-sympathetic, half-amused.

Sherlock groans loudly and throws his pillow in her general vicinity. It misses altogether; he can tell by the laugh she shoots his way. And also by the sound of shattering objects, possibly glass, probably ceramic, likely not valuable.

“Not a chance.” She is entirely too cheerful as she approaches at a rapid pace, stopping by the sofa and staring down at him with one raised eyebrow. “I’m here for tea, and for gossip, and for every single detail about last night.”

Sherlock glares up at her. He wishes he had something else to throw at her face, but all he has is his phone, and he wants to keep that close—just in case. He settles for a well-practised movement—huffing angrily, turning to his side, and burying his face in the back of the couch.

“That good, hm?” Irene asks dryly as she lowers herself onto the sofa, sitting down near Sherlock’s feet with a little sigh. “Seems as though Watson did quite a number on you.”

Sherlock wants to kick Irene in lieu of a response, but she’s already trapped his feet between her back and the cushions, eliminating that option.

He exhales a shaky sigh into the sofa. He knows he should probably tell her the truth, but it’s impossible to tell her what he’s feeling right now. Partially because he’s confused, partially because he’s afraid, but mostly because he can’t find the proper words.

So he settles for telling her in a way he thinks she’ll understand.

“I hate him,” he says, smothering his face deeper into the sofa. He thinks about John’s summer-sky eyes piercing into him until he forgets how to speak.

“I hate him,” he repeats when his voice returns. He thinks about John’s breath, warm on his neck as they’d been pressed against the wall in the library.

“I _hate_ him,” his says, his throat catching for some reason. He thinks about John’s smile, and John’s smile when he’s only smiling at _him._

“I hate him, Irene,” he whispers one final time, just in case she didn’t understand him the first three.

Sherlock _doesn’t_ hate John Watson. He doesn’t hate him at all. It’s a realisation he doesn’t know how to deal with.

“Oh, Sweetheart.” Irene sets a comforting palm against his leg. “I know you do. It’s a scary thing, but I also know you’ll figure it out.”

Irene genuinely understands, because she is Sherlock’s best friend for a reason: she’s always been able to translate the true meaning of his words.

“We can sit here quietly for now,” Irene says, “if that’s what you want to do. And then later, perhaps we can talk about what to do next.”

“Next?” Sherlock mumbles. He feels lightheaded and queasy, but it doesn’t stop him from asking. There’s never been a next for him before.

“Well, I can’t speak for him,” she responds. “But perhaps you can start by getting to know him without that cloud of anger hanging in the way. As a person, not an adversary. Learn what he likes, learn what he loves, what makes him smile.”

John’s smile. As Irene says these words, an image of John’s smile enters Sherlock’s mind, filling him to the brim with happiness. Yes.

He’s going to learn what makes John Watson smile.

Sherlock lets his eyes fall shut, lets an image of John enter his mind. His smile is a wide, dazzling, brilliant thing, and even the memory of it fills Sherlock with a tingling happiness.

Alright. Sherlock will learn what makes John smile, because that’s what he needs to do. Because that’s what he _wants_ to do.

Sherlock is going to need more data.

***

 

John’s subconscious is a minefield.

He’s lying flat on his back in bed—in the same position he’s been lying in since waking up an hour and a half before. And he’s _trying_ to make himself think only safe, mundane thoughts. Thoughts of rugby practice, and chemistry homework, and that pretty girl from his anatomy class.

He’s failing at that. Rather miserably failing at that, in fact.

Because Sherlock Holmes is creeping in through the corners of John’s mind, and his intrusion is fast, and silent, and consuming.

John can still see him just as clearly as he’d seen him the previous night, eyes closed in quiet ecstasy as he’d swayed with his violin. A faint smile had ghosted his lips; an incandescent flush painting colours onto his skin’s typical pallor.

And John can see him there in the sitting room, his face so fervently honest, words rolling off his tongue like French poetry. Telling John such beautiful things, such _overwhelmingly_ beautiful things, things that nobody had ever come close to telling him before.

John tries to shut out these dangerous images with every fibre of his being, but they fight back, and his defences seem to have fallen.

John wants. God, John _wants—_

John can’t, of course. John won’t. He’s not an idiot.

Because Sherlock Holmes is _still_ Sherlock Holmes. He’s still the ruthless genius who would knock down anything in his path to get what he wants. And no matter how vulnerable, or beautiful, or kind he suddenly seems, John reminds himself that nothing has actually _changed._ Sherlock still wants to regain his spot at the top of their class, and John is still the only thing standing in his way.

John can’t allow himself to lie in that path unarmed.

John can’t—John won’t.

But just because John _can’t,_ and just because John _won’t,_ doesn’t mean that John absolutely  _doesn’t._

He can’t help it. He wants. God, he truly _wants,_ and he’s never in his life been so terrified of wanting.

He wants every inch of Sherlock, ruthless and uncontainable though he may be.

Wants to touch him, wants to feel him brush his lips against his own. Wants to breathe his scent of coffee and honey and tobacco. He wants to fall asleep next to Sherlock, wants to wake up in his arms, wants to kiss him while he’s still soft and warm from slumber.

John tries not to want these things—he really, really tries—but there isn’t an atom in his body that obeys.

Twisting his eyes shut again, John allows himself to want—if only for a brief few minutes more.

 

***

 

Sherlock has a plan.

An experiment, of sorts.

Sherlock loves experiments. And he thinks he knows just the way to convince John to participate.

Monday morning, as he strolls into class, he begins to put his plan into motion.

On the way to his own desk, John’s startling blue eyes meet his. Impulsively, Sherlock begins fluffing his curls gently with one hand in a way that he hopes will keep those eyes on him for as long as possible.

It works a charm. John seems to appreciate it more than a little, and more than briefly, and Sherlock is rewarded with a smile that dims the entire room.

It isn’t that the lights are low; it’s just that when John Watson smiles, everything surrounding it becomes dull by comparison.

As the lecture begins, Sherlock slinks into his seat in his usual fashion, barely tuning in for Victor’s useless babble. John is sneaking surreptitious glances back at him every few minutes, as if he’s forgotten that Sherlock is the most observant man on campus.  

Sherlock pretends not to notice as he scrawls notes onto a piece of paper with one hand, his other hand stroking his lips slowly and softly. Sherlock is very good at pretending.

John pretends not to notice, too, but John is decidedly not as good at pretending as Sherlock is.

Victor’s lecture drags on and on.

John is looking at Sherlock again, a slight smile on his lips, and Sherlock wonders if John thinks he’s being subtle. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, how to look, how to feel. So he continues to pretend to take notes.

“The influence of Impressionism spread into realms other than the visual arts,” Victor drawls in his haughty tone, clutching that infernal clipboard like a shield. “Many composers also considered themselves to be Impressionists, including Maurice Ravel and Claude Debussy—”

John clears his throat, turning his head forward as though he’s about to speak. “Actually, Mister Trevor—” he begins, and Sherlock looks up quickly from his desk. He doesn’t want to miss a single minute of anything John ever says.

“Mister Watson,” Victor acknowledges with obvious distaste, and Sherlock feels a flash of animosity towards Victor.

“Debussy didn’t identify as an Impressionist,” John asserts, and Sherlock sits up, craning forward to catch every word.

Victor lifts a brow at John before turning away in disregard. The utter pompous twit. “Actually, Debussy is widely regarded as one of the most influential Impressionist composers of the 19th century, so you’re likely confusing him with someone else.”

John is not the one who’s confused. Victor is confused, and Sherlock plans to inform him of that.

“Actually, Victor, Debussy identified himself as a Symbolist.” Sherlock never speaks in class, so several people turn their heads back to watch him. Someone breaks into fervent whispers to his left, and he barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

He throws a glance over at John, who has turned to fully face him, his mouth twitching upwards as if he’s trying to contain a laugh. Sherlock remembers to thank Debussy later.

Victor opens his mouth to argue, but John is _smiling_ at Sherlock, so Sherlock continues. “His most famous works were based on Symbolist poems, including _Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune_ and—”

 _“Pelléas et Mélisande,”_ John interrupts.

Yes. _Yes,_ John.

Victor shoots John a look of disdain over the dark rim of his glasses. “Well,” he says, his tone clipped. “I suppose it’s merely a matter of opinion.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Sherlock responds reasonably. He’s enjoying himself entirely too much. “A matter of _Debussy’s opinion,_ which was that he was a _Symbolist.”_

And John—beautiful, wonderful John—smiles _again,_ only _wider,_ and… and Sherlock could really get used to this.

 _“Mister Holmes,”_ Victor snaps. Gone is any admiration he’s previously had of Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. This is worth it. “We must continue the lecture, but I would be happy to debate the matter with you after class.”

John scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair, so _brilliantly_ blasé. “With all due respect, Mister Trevor, that might end up being pretty embarrassing for you.”

It takes every ounce of willpower Sherlock has not to jump up out of his seat.

“Mister Watson. Mister Holmes. That’s _enough._ If it’s perfectly alright with you, I would like to proceed.”

“Yes, of course, Victor,” Sherlock says, waving his hand for Victor to continue, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of John. He can feel _himself_ smiling now, growing dizzy as everything tilts.

Victor clears his throat before returning to the lecture, but Sherlock doesn’t pay attention, because John is still looking back at him and smiling. And now he’s giggling softly, and Sherlock would do anything to keep him doing that for as long as Sherlock still breathes.

Which, if he were to judge based on how he’s fared with John so far, might not actually be for much longer.

As the lecture finally ends, Sherlock is so distracted by John’s smile, he nearly forgets to enact the first step of his plan to ensure he smiles _more._ But he remembers at the very last second, scrambling to pick up the paper he’d been writing on. He folds it meticulously into the shape of an origami swan because that’s the only way he knows how to fold paper, and he drops it on John’s desk as he passes him.

***

Victor Trevor is a moron. John has always thought as much, and now, well. Now he’s got undeniable proof.

And what’s even better—what’s absolutely _delightful_ —is the way that proof had been acquired. And the way that proof had made him _shut up._

All with Sherlock’s help. Sherlock, who is supposedly John’s enemy, but had come to his defence when Victor had said he was wrong. Had he done it because he wanted to help John? Or had he simply done it because he had an inherent hatred for stupid people? John can’t decide, but he doesn’t take much time to ponder the answer.

Because Sherlock is approaching John’s desk now in his usual way, chin held high, shoulders thrown back, pretending he’s not silently pleading for John’s attention. _Arrogant git._

And John isn’t irritated. In fact, he feels a little bit fond as he sits and watches Sherlock sail towards him.

Sherlock doesn’t meet John’s eyes; he drops an elegantly folded origami swan on John’s desk before gracefully walking (fleeing) out of the room.

John takes a brief moment to contemplate his day so far.

First, he had nearly gotten into a fight with his (really stupid) professor; now, the most gorgeous boy on campus is dropping origami on his desk.

John stares at it for several seconds, dumbfounded and a little bit resigned, until he hears Victor pointedly clearing his throat across the room.

John glances up at Victor, who is scowling at him from his desk—no doubt a subtle invitation for John to hurry up and leave.

John doesn’t. Victor can piss off; he’s got ten minutes until the next class begins, and it’s a free fucking country, and Sherlock Holmes just _gave him origami._ So he smiles tightly at Victor and remains seated where he is.

He picks the swan up slowly. He sees now that the paper isn’t completely plain—peeking out from behind the folds, he can see looped, messy writing, and the letters “D-o-c.” With a slight grin, he unfolds the swan as carefully as he can, bringing the paper closer to his face to read.

 

_Doctor,_

_Please do not be alarmed by my sudden boldness. I fear our marks may now be in jeopardy. In an effort to keep them intact, I am conducting a brief survey. You may consider it an experiment, if you wish._

_As your future portraitist, I take the responsibility of ensuring high quality art very seriously, and that is why this data is so important._

_It is vital, Doctor, that I am able to ensure that you smile, and remain smiling for the entirety of each session._

_I have listed particular topics that I believe, based on the interests of the typical male university student, may or may not be likely to elicit this particular response from you._

_Please check all that apply, and return this survey to me upon completion._

 

  * __Alcoholic beverages served from enormous wooden vessels__


  * _Contextual movie quotes sprinkled into everyday conversation_


  * _Model T Ford car shows_


  * _Blind hatred towards those expressing support of an opposing sports team_


  * _Not asking for directions, even when one is very clearly lost_


  * _Social discussions involving how much dead weight one can lift into the air_


  * _Listening to aggressively loud rock music in order to maintain social status_


  * _A proper, manly embrace_


  * _Various types of water vehicles_


  * _The word “demolished”_


  * _Tattoos that cover an entire body part_


  * _Going on holiday to places that seem rugged, but are in fact ridiculously well-catered_


  * _Forgetting to do the dishes_


  * _Steak_


  * _The inevitable heat death of the universe_


  * _Origami swans_



 

John laughs out loud, not caring who might be watching him. Sherlock, who had gone to great lengths in the past to make John angry, actually wants to know what makes him _smile?_

And what even _is_ this list? Does Sherlock really think these are things that John might actually have an interest in?

He truly thinks he should be offended. He’s not.

He fumbles with the note, attempting to return it back to its original origami state, but gives up after a few seconds and folds it into a simple, basic square. Slipping it into the pocket of his jeans, he considers whether he should actually participate, or at least set the record straight about how _horrible_ the list is.

Victor clears his throat loudly again, and John gathers his things up quickly.

Fine. His marks could probably use a boost now. So he’ll humour Sherlock until he’s gathered the essential information—nothing more.

 

***

 

Sherlock thinks he probably should not have chosen this exact table at the library, because he’s getting nothing done as far as studying goes.  

He thumbs through the pages of his art book absentmindedly, staring at the chair across from him, replaying a certain event in his head over and over.

John looming over him exactly there, several days before, with a fire in his eyes, a fury in his touch that Sherlock can still feel. Their wild dash into the restroom, and everything else that had happened there under the flimsy excuse of a stolen textbook.

Sherlock rests his chin in his hand as he turns a page again, staring down blindly at the words and pictures.

Suddenly his mobile lights up, vibrating, and he jumps. Frowning, he checks it, and his stomach flips when he sees who the message is from.

It’s from John.

_Not really much of a keg person. I prefer my alcoholic beverages from a bottle. Specifically, a whisky bottle._

Sherlock stares at the message blankly, wondering what it means. Does John have the wrong number?

_Not really a steak eater. I’m a sucker for Chinese takeout, though._

_Pardon? -SH_

_Loud rock music? No. I like listening to more soothing things, like classical music and jazz. Helps me focus and get studying done, and leaves my eardrums intact._

_Oh. I see that you’ve decided to participate in my survey. -SH_

_Thank you. -SH_

_Actually, the list is a little bit ridiculous, Sherlock. And possibly a touch offensive._

Oh. Sherlock stares, unseeing, at the table as he contemplates the articles of the list.

_Offensive? How? -SH_

_Well, for starters, the items grossly overgeneralise and perpetuate gender stereotypes._

God. Sherlock wishes he could have heard John say _that_ out loud.

_I wasn’t aware. -SH_

_So, you want to know, for the portrait, what type of things make me smile?_

_Yes. That is the data I wish to acquire. -SH_

_For the portrait. -SH_

_Hm, candle-lit dinners? Long walks on the beach?_

_Joking._

_Noted. -SH_

_Shit. My next lecture is starting. We can talk more about this on Wednesday. Wanna meet me after class?_

Sherlock stares at the message for several seconds to ensure he’s read it correctly before typing his response.

_I can do that. -SH_

He continues to stare at the messages until the phone screen goes black, and then turns the mobile back on and stares at them some more. When his eyes start to water, he finally sets the phone facedown on the table, shoving it as far away from himself as he possibly can.

 

_***_

 

On Wednesday, as soon as Victor’s lecture is over, John can already feel Sherlock’s anticipatory gaze as he quickly gathers his things. He stands, turning and meeting Sherlock’s eyes across the crowd of students working their way out of the classroom. He raises a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock, as if to make sure he’s keen to follow.

Sherlock raises his own eyebrow enticingly in response. The two of them lock eyes as they wait for each student to pass. Afterwards, Sherlock moves down the aisle towards him, and John meets him there with nothing more than a small smile. They walk out of class together—blatantly ignoring Victor as he rifles through his desk—through the hallway, exiting into the winter sunshine.

As they walk silently with no destination, John finds himself needing a moment to stare at Sherlock. The wind is blowing his hair across his pale forehead as he squints against the sharp winter sun; his eyes impossibly pale against the brightness of the sky.

Sherlock notices, glancing sideways in John’s direction.

“Thanks for meeting me,” John says softly, perhaps a bit shyly.

Sherlock bites lightly at his bottom lip; his expression is almost considering as he nods and smiles faintly. “Where are you taking me, Doctor?” His lips are wet, and pink.

“Nowhere in particular,” John says casually, tearing his eyes away and affixing them firmly on the path in front of them. “I thought maybe we could take a walk, and I could help with your data.”

Sherlock’s steps falter slightly. “I like data. Quite a lot.” His voice is almost small.

“Yeah.” John stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. “Data is good.”

“Data,” Sherlock murmurs absently as he looks over again at John. His eyes roam over John’s features—an assessment, a perusal.

John desperately wishes he’d stop doing that, but he just as desperately wants him _not_ to stop.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes snap forward again, a stoic expression spreading onto his face.

John nudges him on the arm with his elbow. “You can smile, too,” he says. “It’s not like I’m leading you somewhere to be murdered.”

He unconsciously leans in to Sherlock, their shoulders brushing as they walk. Sherlock doesn’t move away; neither does John.

John moves closer, gradually, slowly, until they are perfectly aligned; shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, hip to hip.

Sherlock smiles. He quickly tries to hide it, tucking his face into the collar of his coat, but sways back into John, humming a bit as he does. Falling into step with one another, they walk, and walk, and walk, and say nothing at all.

John doesn’t realise how far they’ve actually gone until they approach a familiar neighbourhood cafe.

“There’s a good coffee place here,” John mentions, slowing down his pace a bit.

Sherlock glances over. His face is very close. “And?” _All_ of him is very close.

“And it’s cold today. And coffee is warm.”

Sherlock blinks at John. “Right, well, I suppose I’ll let you—”

“Join me?” John interrupts. _What is he doing?_

Sherlock pulls away just a bit, nervous. “Join you? For—”

“For coffee,” John explains patiently. “And because it would elicit the type of response you’re seeking for your data collection.” _What is he doing?_

John closes the scant distance between them once more, ignoring the heat in his chest.

Sherlock lets him.

Sherlock’s face crinkles into a laugh; his smile so large that it almost hurts John to look at. John laughs with him, feeling the vibrations of their voices through the fabric of their coats.

Alright, then. John’s getting coffee with Sherlock. _It’s only coffee. Nothing wrong with that._

John repeats these words in his head as he struggles to fucking _breathe._  

***

Sherlock can see why John likes this place; it’s small and warm and cosy. (Just like John.) The menu is written on a chalkboard hanging high above the counter, done up in a cheerful, whimsical hand; there is a little glass case full of baked goods towards the front of the room.

He and John are squeezed into a tiny corner table. They are almost touching; their hands resting parallel on the tabletop, scant centimetres separating their knees.

John is telling Sherlock some elaborate tale involving people Sherlock knows nothing about. Usually, he’d be annoyed. But this is John—with his beautiful smile, engaging verbosity, and a laugh that could charm absolutely anyone.

Sherlock can’t look away.

He takes a sip of his coffee in order to hide the look of fondness that he knows is emerging.

John breaks off in the middle of his story, his expression fading from one of amusement to one of faint concern. “You okay, Sherlock?” he asks.

Sherlock realises that he’s frowning rather grimly; undoubtedly his body’s way of fighting against the completely besotted expression it wants to display.

He stops frowning, and sits up straighter. “I was hoping that we could discuss the survey.”

John’s smile doesn’t fade. “Yeah. We can talk about that, if you’d like.”

Sherlock purses his lips together, swallowing thickly. “So tell me, Doctor, for the sake of art—what are the kinds of things that cause you to—”

“Smile?” John peeks coquettishly at Sherlock over the brim of his mug. “The French language, I suppose. And violin concertos. And intellectually stimulating conversation partners.” He sets his mug down, steadying his gaze.

Sherlock flushes immediately, and he’s very thankful that he’s sitting. If he were standing, he’d quite likely have fallen.

“What else, Doctor?” he breathlessly inquires.

John leans forward in his chair, the bottom of his ribcage resting on the table, as if he wants to be as close to Sherlock as possible. “Origami swans. Boys who defend my honour against pompous, moronic professors.”

Sherlock’s heart thumps in his chest. His hands are shaking a little bit, and his head feels funny, like he’s soaring high above the ground.

“Come over tomorrow,” Sherlock blurts, and his eyes widen at the abruptness of his own words. He hadn’t been expecting to speak those words at _all._ “For a painting session, I mean. I know we’d said next week, but you paint slowly, and we might... need the extra time.”

John silently stares up at him from beneath heavy lashes. “Alright.”

Sherlock tries not to convey the elation making his whole body sing with anticipation. “Alright? You will?” he says, wrapping his fingers around his warm mug and squeezing tightly. “I... didn’t think you’d agree so easily.”

“Mm, well,” John says, brushing his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m going to agree to come over, but I’ve got one condition: I get to choose the time.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock replies automatically, if only to uphold his argumentative nature. The feeling of excitement is driving him mad, and he knows that there’s no way he’s going to say no.

John finishes his coffee in one gulp and digs through his bag, pulling out some bills and placing them onto the table. “I’ve got rugby practice at seven, so I’ll come over at four o’clock.”

Sherlock swallows, trying to keep is heart from leaping into his throat.

John looks Sherlock directly in the eye as he gently places a palm on Sherlock’s upper arm, letting it sit hotly for a few seconds before he speaks. “Thanks for joining me, Sherlock. Sorry to rush out of here, but I’ve got to head to my next class.” With one last grin, he takes his hand off of Sherlock, turning to go.

“Wait.” The panic in Sherlock’s voice surprises him. “What if four o’clock doesn’t work for me?”

John doesn’t stop walking as he turns his head to briefly look back at Sherlock. “I’m sure you’ll make it work.”

Sherlock watches John walk out of the cafe, and continues to stare out the window until he disappears at the end of the street. With a huff, he picks up his cup of coffee and drinks.

He’s irritated, annoyed, extremely miffed at having to move his online chess tournament to another day, and he is, of course, going to make it work.

 

***

 

The door to Sherlock’s flat swings open before John even has a chance to knock.

He’s standing stupidly, hand half-raised, staring at Sherlock although he really knows he shouldn’t.

Sherlock’s lips are slightly parted, as if he wants to say something; but he simply stands there and breathes, and John stands there and breathes right with him.

John is in so much fucking trouble. Because when Sherlock looks like that—moves like that—smiles like that—he’s absolutely gone.

Sherlock looks utterly breathtaking tonight. His unruly curls falling into his pale, ethereal face, his moonbeam eyes shifting across John’s features gently.

“Hello, Doctor,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice a low, golden rumble. He opens the door a little bit wider, and John finally lowers his hands and steps through. Sherlock blinks at him, heavy and slow against slightly flushed cheeks. “Shall I play for you again, or did you have something else in mind?”

When John speaks, his voice is hoarse. “No. You playing violin is definitely what I had in mind.”

 

***

 

That evening, Sherlock plays like the music is simply flowing through him; like _he’s_ the instrument, and the violin is an extension of his body.

He stands in the middle of the sitting room, eyes closed, eyelashes curved over his cheeks, swaying gently as he plays, and John paints him, and paints him, and paints him.

John wants to drink in the sight of him as deeply as he possibly can until the unavoidable return to reality. 

Sherlock begins playing a slow and mellow melody that reminds John faintly of a lullaby. After a few bars of this, Sherlock opens his eyes and meets John’s across the small space, his eyes clear and silver.

“Doctor,” he says softly, his bow coming to a stop, still resting over the top of the strings.

“Sherlock?” John asks, concerned. “You alright?”

“The way you were looking at me just now,” he murmurs. “It was… new.”

“What do you mean, new?” God, John hopes he hadn’t looked like the besotted fool he feels like.

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “I’ve never seen you... smile like that before.”

“Oh,” John says. He pats awkwardly at his cheeks. What on earth had his face been _doing?_ “Sorry. I’ll—”

“No,” Sherlock says quickly. His eyes are very wide. “I would just like to know what happened to elicit that particular response.”

“Well, erm…” John begins, placing his brush carefully into a cup of water sitting on the easel. He _had_ looked like a besotted fool, then. Lovely. His palms are sweating. He wipes them on his trousers and swallows, clearing his throat.

Fuck. He’d been caught in the act.

Sherlock is staring at John like he holds all the answers to the universe.

“Sherlock.” John doesn’t consider his words, doesn’t hold back. Sherlock deserves to know.

“Everything about what you’re doing is utterly beautiful. The melody, the way you move when you play.” He takes a short breath. _“You.”_

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He looks dazed. John wonders if he is trying to grasp the concept of his supposed enemy telling him that he’s _beautiful._

“I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” John says softly. “Because it’s true. And I’d very much like for you to keep doing it.”

Sherlock’s eyes focus on him once again with laser-precision. “Alright. But I may need to continue my research, as this is not a viable solution for the original problem. I need you to smile while I paint you, and it would be physically impossible for me to play and paint you at the same time.”

John chuckles, relieved that nothing terrible had come of his sudden urge to be frighteningly honest. “I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay.”

 

***

 

John waits for Sherlock to finish the song he’s playing before putting the final touches on the portrait. He supposes it could be worse, given his complete lack of experience—his complete, total, utter lack of experience—but it could certainly be _better._

Of course, nothing, _nothing,_ could convey the otherworldly beauty of Sherlock Holmes. _Nothing._

Sherlock opens his eyes once the piece is finished, and John doesn’t stop smiling, even when their eyes meet. “I think I’m finished.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sets the violin back into his case. “Can I see?” He seems eager, his face bright.

“Listen, Sherlock,” John says, raising his hands in a half-hearted gesture of self-defence. “It’s not going to live up to your standards, but you have to promise me you won’t laugh at it.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at John, a smirk immediately falling into place. “I can’t promise _anything,”_ Sherlock drawls. “For all I know, you’ve turned me into some sort of behemoth.”

John laughs, but the laughter is nervous and forced. “I mean it, Sherlock. It won’t do well for my self-esteem. So if you don’t like it, just… keep your thoughts to yourself, yeah?”

“You act as if you’ve never met me, Doctor,” Sherlock quips. He moves towards John faster than John had been prepared for, leaning forward quickly, but John’s hands come up to grab him by the arms. “Hey,” he says. “Back up.”

“Just let me _see,”_ Sherlock whines, squirming a bit in John’s arms.

John stares at him, reveling in the moment, taking in one last look at the real, _beautiful_ Sherlock. “Fine.” He drops his arms to his sides, backing away from the painting as he allows Sherlock to come in closer.

And, well, John hadn’t expected a particularly _polite_ reaction from Sherlock. But the very moment Sherlock lays eyes on the painting, he doesn’t even _try_ to remain composed. Immediately, his hands fly up to cover his mouth, his sides convulsing with silent laughter. 

“Sherlock!” John says, voice thick with false dismay and smothered amusement of his own. “Stop!”

“Doc—” Sherlock can hardly get the word out between his tiny, breathy gasps. He’s smiling so big, his cheeks are round and pink. “Doctor, this is… to put it delicately, really, really, incredibly _awful.”_

The corners of John’s mouth turn down in mock disapproval, but inside, he is glowing. “I dislike you very much, you arrogant git,” he says, enunciating clearly. “I really hope you know that.”

“Well, I have no doubt in my mind _now,”_ Sherlock says, gesturing towards the painting with a blinding grin.

“Sherlock.”

“I mean, here, above my hideously deformed smile, what is this meant to be?” He points to the top left corner of the face. He looks equal parts delighted and horrified. “Is it... an eye? Or a strand of hair? Or a stem of broccoli?”

_“Sherlock.”_

“And I was unaware of this giant blue splotch on my neck, but thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He strokes at his jugular absently, and John follows the trail of his fingers with his eyes. “Perhaps I should get that checked out. What do you think, Doctor?”

John’s face is beet red, partially from embarrassment, and partially because he’s trying to hold in a laugh himself.

He’s never seen Sherlock laugh like this; it’s lovely. If that means that John’s work is going to be mocked, then… well. Whatever. Who is he kidding?

It’s the ugliest painting he’s ever seen, and that is decidedly _not_ the fault of his subject.

Giving up on the fantasy of retaining any dignity at all, John begins to giggle, too; his higher giggles blending perfectly with Sherlock’s rumbling baritone. “God,” he says, inhaling. “What the hell did I create? I really, really should _not_ be taking this course.”

“No,” Sherlock gasps. He’s holding his stomach, and John thinks he might actually see tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. “But I’m very glad you are.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s expression changes into one of panic; he backtracks hastily, stumbling over his words. “I just mean that I’m—I’m glad that I’ve got someone to ridicule. And. Yes.”

John is smiling despite Sherlock’s poor attempt at saving face, laughter gradually slowing down to something bubbling and giddy. “Yeah,” he says. “Turns out, I’m glad, too.”

Sherlock looks up at him again and smiles, and John would give anything to know what he’s thinking at this very moment.

They’re standing close—so, so close. John doesn’t remember when that happened.  

John’s eyes wander to Sherlock’s perfectly-formed lips, and he grants himself a very brief moment of longing _—_ giving in to a feeling hooked deep within his sternum.

And Sherlock—with his ability to deduce, to _see—_ surely notices, but remains completely still.

“I should go,” John says. “Rugby practice.” And because otherwise, he might do something he’s not allowed.

Sherlock’s eyes flit to the ground, and the uncomplicated joy is gone from his expression. “I understand. If I were you, I’d want to flee out of embarrassment, too.” He laughs again, but it’s mixed with something tight and guarded. “Please,” he says, nodding towards the painting. “take this garish object with you.”

“Not yet,” John says, a grin quicking his lips. “It needs to dry first. So it stays here for the time being.”

“God, no.” Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes, the very picture of drama. “I can’t promise you that I won’t accidentally spill an entire bottle of paint onto it, just to spare my eyes the pain.”

“Might be an improvement, actually.” John stands there for a moment, more words poised on the tip of his tongue, but... he can’t. So he nods at Sherlock, and then he turns to leave.

“I don’t… want to wait until next week to see you again.” Sherlock’s voice is slow, hesitant, pitched low.

It stops John in his tracks.

“I just mean,” Sherlock continues. “I thought perhaps we could… meet again tomorrow?”

There is a short length of ringing silence. John’s heart speeds.

John can feel himself giving in.

“We don’t… have to, of course,” Sherlock continues. “I just thought, with the due dates…”

“Sherlock,” John finally turns, and his tone is almost soothing. “Yeah, of course we can meet again tomorrow.”

“For the portrait,” Sherlock mutters. He’s wringing his hands in front of his thighs, eyes darting everywhere except for John’s face.

John smiles. “Not entirely for the portrait.”

 

***

 

John is smiling so warmly at Sherlock that Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock is so scared that he’s trembling. His heart feels like a living creature trapped in his ribcage, trying its level best to get out.

But he thinks he knows what he’s got to do next.

He takes a step forward.

Wraps his arms around John’s body.

Pulls him closer until John is pressed flush against his chest.

_John._

He thinks John’s going to pull away. John doesn’t.

Instead, John wraps his own arms around Sherlock’s waist almost instantly, melting into him with a boneless slump.

“Oh, hello,” John whispers, nuzzling his soft head under Sherlock’s skin. “Wasn’t expecting this to happen.”

“To be honest, neither was I,” Sherlock admits. Shivering, he rests his head on top of John’s and inhales his scent deeply. “But here we are.”

“Yes.” John tugs Sherlock even closer to him, squeezing him gently, burying his face into his neck. “Here we are.”

Sherlock can’t breathe.

He wants to fold John into him, to press and pull and hold him until they’re merged together as one. He settles for placing one hand on the back of John’s neck and one at his waist and cradling him like he’s a breakable thing.

 _“Oh,”_ Sherlock says, half-voice, half-breath; he relaxes further into John, slowly tipping his head until his chin rests lightly on the crown of John’s head. “I can feel you smiling against me.”

“Yeah?” John says, smile widening as he presses his palms against Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Then I suppose you can consider your experiment successful.”

Sherlock whispers, exhalation stirring John’s hair softly. “Yes. Very successful indeed.”


	7. No Actual Canvases Were Harmed in the Making of This Chapter Because of Snogging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock tilts his head forward, his chest rising and falling rapidly against John’s. He exhales, almost a sigh._
> 
> _“John.”_
> 
> _John kisses him._

**[Unsent Drafts—Sherlock]**

_6:40 PM: Rugby is a waste of your time. Come back to my flat and let me paint you. -SH_

_6:41 PM: Doct -SH_

_6:41 PM: Joh -SH_

_6:43 PM: This is wholly unfair  -SH_

_6:45 PM: Doctor, my head is  -SH_

_6:46 PM: I wish I could still be holding you right now. -SH_

_6:47 PM: Did you know that your eyes are every shade of blue that exists? -SH_

_6:48 PM: John. -SH_

_6:48 PM: Doctor, my head is full of you. -SH_

 

**[Unsent Drafts—John]**

_6:50 PM: Hey. Sorry I had to go so quickly. This is_

_6:50 PM: I wish they’d cancel practice so I could come back to_

_6:50 PM: Sher_

_6:53 PM: Sherlock_

_6:54 PM: If I were there right now, I’d be smiling at you. Just so you know._

_6:55 PM: Did you know that you smell like coffee and honey and tobacco?_

_6:56 PM: Just curious. Do you ever think about m_

_6:57 PM: Do you ever think about me?_

_6:57 PM: I think about you all the damn time._

 

_Well, practice is about to start. I’ll see you tomorrow :) [Delivered]_

_Yes. Good evening, Doctor. -SH [Delivered]_

 

***

 

(Earlier that evening…)

_Here we are._

Three simple words whispered into the skin of Sherlock’s neck by John only seconds before.

And Sherlock doesn’t exactly know where _here_ is, or how the two of them had arrived, but _here_ is definitely where they are, and _here_ is exactly where he wants to be.

Because wherever _here_ is, _here_ is Sherlock Holmes, and _here_ is John Watson, and they are standing in the doorway of Sherlock’s flat and holding one another _here._ Folded together with an intensity completely unspoken yet palpable, candid and increased; smiles effervescent and unrestrained. _Here,_ time has stopped, and is marked only by the unified beating of their hearts. _Here,_ John is warm against Sherlock, and his compact body fits perfectly within the circle of Sherlock’s arms. _Here,_ they embrace as though they have no other choice; as though letting one another go would be a harsh defeat. As though only weeks ago, Sherlock had not hated this man with a blazing ferocity; as though it had always been inevitable that _here_ is where the path would lead.

 _What are they doing, exactly?_ Sherlock wonders, exhalations steadily sweeping John’s flaxen hair.

_And why haven’t they been doing it since the start?_

He only knows that he wants more, more, more.  

_Stay, John. Stay, stay, stay—_

“Sherlock,” John says into the fabric of Sherlock’s collar, his rough voice lightly stirring Sherlock’s curls. “I’ve got to go.”

Sherlock barely stops himself from reflexively squeezing John’s waist just to keep him there; barely stops himself from pressing his face into the top of John’s head and pulling him close enough to claim him.

John pulls away with an aching, aching slowness. He skims his fingers lazily down Sherlock’s arms until the two are no longer touching, and Sherlock’s skin becomes glacier-cold.

But John, wonderful John, is looking up at him and smiling, _beaming,_ and he’s achingly beautiful right now, and Sherlock would be preening if he weren’t feeling desperate, out of control, and weak in the knees.  

“Rugby practice,” John quietly reminds him.

Sherlock has always hated rugby, but now he _despises_ it. How dare such a pointless diversion take John out of Sherlock’s arms and out of Sherlock’s flat and away from _here?_

“I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” John says, reeling Sherlock back to earth with his brilliant grin.

_No._

_Tomorrow only means that I will wake up again without you here, engaged in a fruitless war with my brain to not let it be consumed by the very thought of you._

John stands there before Sherlock for a moment more, his gaze hesitant, if not expectant.

Sherlock only stuffs his hands into the pockets of his trousers, because if his hands were free, he’s not sure what they might do. They might skim over John’s soft, soft hair; they might reach out and grip John by the shoulders; they might even pull him in once more so that Sherlock can press his lips gently against John’s temple.

_Go, John. Leave._

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Doctor,” Sherlock says with a false nonchalance as jarring to him as nails against a chalkboard.

 _Stay_ , _John. John, please stay._

John nods at him; a jerky, disjointed movement. “Bye, Sherlock,” he says, and he turns to go.

Sherlock follows John’s every movement, lingering closely behind him as John reaches out and grasps the door handle, turning it to open.

John pauses again on the threshold, and for one brief, hope-filled moment, Sherlock thinks he’s going to turn around, thinks he’s going to come back, and…

He doesn’t. He simply opens the door the rest of the way and slips out, not giving him a second glance.

Sherlock’s feet are lurching him forward as the door shuts behind John, and he grasps the metal of the doorknob, brushing against where John’s fingers had been moments before.

He knows that if John were to turn around right now, to open this door and come back this very instant, Sherlock would do absolutely anything John wanted of him. That if John pulled Sherlock back into that safe space of his arms, tucked his head against Sherlock’s neck, and ran his fingers along Sherlock’s back, Sherlock would never, ever, ever be able to let go.

John doesn’t come back.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, his head falling forward to rest glumly on the cool wooden door; his breaths falling heavy and helpless in the empty loneliness that _here_ has become.

 

***

 

John takes one step away from the door. Two. Three. Stop.

Wants to turn around.

Wants to grab Sherlock and press him against the door and kiss him until he can’t breathe. Wants to say “To hell with being enemies”, cup Sherlock’s face in his hands and touch his pale, pale cheeks; wants to breathe gently against his pink, pink lips.

He can’t go back inside. It is completely irrational for him to go back inside. Why does he even _want_ to go back inside? He’s headed to a perfectly interesting rugby practice, with all of his perfectly fine teammates, and…

Sherlock isn’t going to be there. And John doesn’t want to be anywhere that Sherlock isn’t going to be.

Rugby practice. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sodding rugby. Why’d he decide to play _that_ anyway?

So for a long, long moment, he leans back against the outside of the door, spine pressed against the grainy olive wood. He breathes, and he breathes, and he waits, and he waits, for his unreliable feet to carry him _somewhere._

It’s taking every ounce of self-control right now for John not to go back inside, because he knows that would be a _terrible_ idea.

Knows that if he did, he’d give in and lose control completely. He’d see Sherlock, beautiful and vulnerable, and he’d be helpless to stop himself. Stop everything that he’s been thinking from pouring out of his mouth.

So he goes. Lifts himself from the door and lets his legs carry him down the single flight of stairs, out the door, and goes into the frosty, moonless night.

 

***

 

John makes it to rugby practice, but he isn’t there for it, not really. Not mentally at least, and certainly not emotionally. His teammates can tell something is up after he misses his second and third goals: “Up late last night, mate? Got some new girl keeping you awake?”

John nearly laughs out loud with sheer hysterical desperation.

If only they knew—he doesn’t even _think_ about women anymore. Or anyone, really, at least not in _that_ way.

There’s only room for Sherlock.

When practice ends, John finds Molly waiting for him in the lobby, looking small and windblown and cheerful. John beams; it’s a pleasant surprise, and John is relieved and excited to see her. They’ve both been too busy lately to spend much time together, with their studies, and their graduate school applications, and with catering to the whims of certain capricious, dark-haired lunatics.

“Molls. Hey,” he says warmly as he approaches her. She smiles and twines her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug.

“Hey, Mate,” she says affably as she kisses him lightly on the cheek. “How are things going in your world?”

John huffs out a brief, unamused laugh. “Do I really need to answer?”

“No.” Molly pulls back, her arms still around his neck, and smiles gently at him. “I can already see it on that face of yours.” Hell. He’s missed her more than he even realised.

John heaves a deep sigh.

Molly tucks her arm through John’s as they turn to walk towards the exit of the building. “Let me walk you home. We can pop open a bottle of Merlot and hang out with Mike, chat about the party.”

 _Shit._ That’s right. John had forgotten—Mike’s birthday is this weekend, and they’re meant to throw a party at their flat. God, he’s been so distracted lately, and he’s a terrible friend now, and he blames Sherlock for _that,_ too.

Molly glances sideways at him, raising her eyebrows with a scolding expression. She watches him for a moment, and he nearly trips and falls on his face. “You forgot about the party, didn’t you?”

“I…” Christ. He’s never been able to lie to Molly. “Yeah, I’ve just been so busy lately. Not that that’s an excuse, but…”

Molly’s expression softens. He wonders what expressions are playing out across his own face, but guesses that they aren’t particularly happy ones. “No worries,” she says. “I think I can take care of most of it. And, you know. Sherlock’s invited, too, if you wanted to—”

“Why would I want—?”

Molly clears her throat nervously, staring straight ahead. “I didn’t mean, erm… I mean, I’m just… letting you know the option is there.”

John sighs again, treading slowly on the pathway back to his flat next to Molly. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So when do you two… when is your next painting session?” Molly tries to keep her face casual as she stares at her feet, and entirely fails.

“Tomorrow,” John says a tad hesitantly. “Tomorrow evening. There’s… a deadline,” he adds a bit defensively, “so—" 

“Yeah.” A grin threatens to flash on Molly’s lips, but she keeps it under control. “Deadline.”

John grins back at her, but quickly sobers. “Molly, I—I don’t… I know I can trust you not to judge me. It’s just… I don’t know exactly what all of this with Sherlock _is_ , so if we could just keep it…”

Molly stops walking and turns to face John, squeezing his hand tightly in hers. “I know,” she says, and he stops to turn to her as well. “Your secret’s safe with me, John. Well. And with my girlfriend, of course.”

John smiles at her faintly. “Thanks, Molls. And tell Irene I said thanks, as well.”

She smiles back, and it quickly turns into a grin once more. They resume walking as she speaks. “So… does that mean you’re going to invite him to the party?”

He sighs again. “I don’t know. Something tells me parties aren’t really his thing.”

“Well. Something tells me that intelligent, charming medical students _are_ his thing,” she quips back without missing a beat. “So maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

John sighs again, louder, and hopes that she gets the hint. “We’ll see how tomorrow goes. It could crash and burn miserably, especially after the night we’ve just had…”

Molly arches an eyebrow at him, clearly hoping for an explanation, but John waves her off. “Nothing to tell,” he lies, and Molly doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press, because she’s John’s best friend for a reason.

So, with every hour that brings John closer—closer to being in the same room with Sherlock again; to his soft skin and perfect lips; to the crackle of electricity between them as the oxygen is completely sucked out of the room—John’s heart races just a little bit more. 

But he won’t think about it tonight. Tonight, he’ll go home,  enjoy the company of his two best friends, and drink a little bit to help him relax. It should be fine. He’ll be fine. It’s only one day.

 

***

 

_I decided it would be fun to_

 

_even though you drive me completely mad, you’re the most_

 

_so gorgeous, it sometimes hurts to_

 

_every last bit of my self control_

 

_Je ne te déteste_

 

***

 

The next morning, John wakes up with an enormous smile already plastered onto his face, even though his entire skull throbs with a dull, incessant pain.

No matter. He’d gone to sleep smiling, woken up smiling, and probably smiled every moment in between.

In his sleepy haze, the reason for his headache is not immediately apparent, but the reason for this feeling of contented elation is clear.

Sherlock Holmes.

Last night, John had held Sherlock in his arms, and he’d held him for a long, long time. Held him until he couldn’t tell whose breath belonged to whom; until he couldn’t tell whether he was awake or dreaming.

Letting go of him had been so, so hard; and rugby practice had been even harder. But he’d bumped into Molly afterwards, and they had gone back to his flat, and he and Molly and Mike had enjoyed some wine. Just a glass. Maybe two.

He looks over at the empty wine bottle on his nightstand.

Perhaps it had been more.

_Oh._

_Oh, oh, shit._

He’d gotten very drunk last night, hadn’t he?

_No. No, no no._

John fumbles for his phone and finds it buried underneath his blanket. As he reads his text messages from last night, his heart drops, and he curses his dumb, drunk fingers.

God. What had he done?

He sends an SOS text to the only person he knows who might possibly be able to help him.

 

_Molly. Hi. I fucked up._

_John. Hi. I’m headed to Tom’s cafe. Meet me there in 20 minutes?_

 

John is never going to drink again.

 

***

 

_Stop sulking. You aren’t a good conversation partner when you sulk._

_We weren’t having a conversation. -SH_

_We are now. Unless you’d like for me to stop._

_No. -SH_

 

_Why are you texting me at this hour, Doctor? -SH_

_I’ve had a bottle of wine, and as I was lying in bed, I decided it would be fun to keep you awake._

_What makes you so sure you’re keeping me awake? -SH_

_It’s one in the morning. Most people would be sleeping._

_I’m not most people. -SH_

_Oh, Sherlock. I know you aren’t._

 

_You aren’t most people either. -SH_

_Care to elaborate on that? Rugby practice was a bit rough tonight, so some flattery might be good for me ;)_

_Assuming you have it in you, that is._

_How drunk are you, exactly? -SH_

_Drunk enough to ask you to flatter me._

_Hm. Drunk enough to remember if I do? -SH_

_Ask me that again tomorrow when I come over._

 

_Doctor. On the very best of days, you are not a total idiot.  -SH_

_That’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me, Sherlock._

_Don’t become accustomed to it. -SH_

_I won’t._

_But I suppose I should say something nice about you, now._

_Would you like for me to give you a little bit of praise?_

_I’m waiting with bated breath. -SH_

 

_Sherlock, even though you drive me completely mad, you’re the most brilliant and cleverest person I’ve ever met._

_And if that weren’t enough, you’re so gorgeous that it sometimes hurts to look away from you._

_And your hair. Jesus, your hair. It looks so soft, and it smells so, so good._

_When you held me earlier today, it took every last bit of my self control not to reach up and touch it._

_I bet if I ran my fingers through it, it would feel like silk, wouldn’t it?_

_It frames your face so perfectly. Makes your pale features stand out, all formal and serious until I make you smile. And then you glow._

_Your eyes light up when you smile. I like making you smile, too._

 

_Doctor… -SH_

_Yes?_

_Why are you… telling me these things? -SH_

_You’re supposed to hate me. That’s how this works, isn’t it? Between you and I? -SH_

_God, you’re an idiot._

_Je ne te déteste pas, Sherlock Holmes._ _  
_

_Pas du tout._

_I really hope that doesn’t disappoint you._

_No. No, it doesn’t. -SH_

_Je ne te déteste pas non plus. -SH_

 

_Well. I should really go to sleep._

_And so should you._

_I’ll see you tomorrow, Doctor. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late. -SH_

_Looking forward to it. Goodnight, Sherlock._

 

***

 

When John arrives at Sherlock’s for their next painting session, he is prepared to apologise for the text messages from the previous night. Prepared to ignore them, prepared to do anything it takes, as long as Sherlock will continue to look at him the way he had only one day before.

But when Sherlock greets him at the door, he doesn’t even look him in the eyes.

“Doctor,” he says. “Good evening.”  His face is carefully blank, his voice unaffected, and John’s stomach churns with regret. This is worse than all of the times Sherlock had looked at him with animosity. Because this… this is _nothing._

John had really screwed this up, hadn’t he?

He doesn’t know what to say. What _can_ he say? Not, “Sherlock, I didn’t mean it.” Because nothing could be further from the truth. But anything else would be too truthful, and would only serve to make this chasm even wider.

John opts for impersonal small talk, and sadly, Sherlock opts for the same.

“Sherlock, I—Hey.” _Silence._ “How are you?”

“I’m…”

“Yeah.”

“Shall we start the portrait?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Take a seat on the sofa.”

“Okay.”

It would be far less painful if they were saying nothing at all.

And for a long time, they don’t. Sherlock quietly paints John, opal eyes trained fixedly on the canvas, a little furrow between his eyebrows as he pointedly does _not_ speak. John wants to say something, but there are too many words, and he’s not sure he wouldn’t accidentally say them all the second he opened his mouth.

In those blissful moments when they do catch one another’s glances, it feels as though they’re going to speak about it. Neither of them do.

How is it possible to actually miss someone who’s standing right in front of you?

A knock at the door breaks the uneasy stillness that they’ve built for themselves in this dim room, and John nearly jumps.

Sherlock glances up, dark eyebrows arched. “The food I ordered is here,” he states in an almost-casual tone.

Oh. “You—you ordered food?” John asks in surprise.

He looks back at John, smiling faintly with a corner of his mouth, and John’s chest expands at the sight.

A smile. _Finally._

“Of course,” Sherlock says, as if it’s an extremely obvious question with an even plainer answer. He stares at John for a few seconds more, and the smug assurance falls from his features. “That’s what people do, isn’t it? Order food?”  

Sherlock sets the paint brush down and stands up, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from the easel. He opens the door and exchanges food and money.

Then, as he turns back to face John with a look of hesitation, the smell of Chinese stir fry and rice fills the room.

_Oh. Oh. Sherlock had remembered that John likes Chinese takeout. No, he hadn’t. Had he?_

Sherlock watches John silently for a moment, plastic bag hanging from one hand.

“Dinner?”

John watches him in return, a bit nonplussed.

“Starving.”

“I wasn’t sure what kind of food you preferred.”  Sherlock is still not looking at John as he sets the bag of food on the coffee table. “So I ordered a variety.”

“Okay, well, erm… I like all of it, really.” John fumbles with his words. “What are _you_ going to have?”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock says plainly.

John frowns. “Then why did you order all of this food?”

“I thought it was obvious. I did it for you. It’s all for you.”

John’s heart unexpectedly thumps as he swallows and clears his throat. “You… remembered when I…  told you that I liked it?” The question comes out a little broken, a little bewildered.

“Of course I remembered. You said it’s something that makes you smile, and that is very important data to keep.” Sherlock is speaking earnestly, his eyes slightly wider. “And it seemed as though you’d need that tonight, with the awful scowl you’ve been wearing since you arrived.”

John stares back at Sherlock, stunned, and Sherlock smiles back at him, soft and tentative.

John feels an answering smile tugging at his own features; an expression more genuine than any he’s worn all evening. “Thank you,” he breathes, and he hopes his voice is steadier than he feels. “But it would make me even happier if I could share it with someone—With you.”

Sherlock says nothing. His eyes flicker away from John’s as he lowers his head, but John doesn’t miss how happy he looks.

“I suppose I could join you,” Sherlock finally says. “Just give me a moment.”

John watches Sherlock as the man opens a drawer and pulls out two expensive looking candles, sets them on the coffee table, and carefully strikes a match to light them both.

 _Oh. Oh my god,_ he thinks. _A candlelit dinner. He remembered that, too._

Sherlock meets John’s eyes, his gaze searching, as if unsure that he’s doing the right thing.

John beams at him.

“I know you said it was a joke,” Sherlock says hesitantly. “But I assumed that it could add a certain ambience to—”

“I love it,” John interrupts. “I love candlelit dinners, and I love Chinese takeout, and I—”

“I know.” Sherlock inclines his head in an elegant gesture as he smiles at John. He turns one final time and walks slowly over to the bookshelf where he picks up his mobile phone.

John blinks, wondering what he could possibly doing _now,_ and then—

A smooth, bright jazz melody floats through the air.

 

_It's not the pale moon that excites me_

_That thrills and delights me_

_Oh no, it's just the nearness of you..._

 

“Oh my god,” John says softly. Sherlock’s back is still to him, his head bowed, and John doesn’t restrain himself; he stares at him openly. “You...”

Sherlock’s voice is so quiet that John can barely hear it over the music flooding gently through the room. “You said that jazz makes you smile, too.”

“I…” John swallows, and breathes deeply for a few seconds. He wants Sherlock to turn around, so Sherlock can see the look on his face, and so _he_ can see the look on _his._

“And I just thought that—since it was something you proclaim to be fond of, it wouldn’t be remiss of me to play some tonight, but we don’t have to—”

_“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock turns slowly, openly meeting John’s gaze. He looks a little bit helpless, a little bit scared, his Milky Way eyes wide and a bit wild, and...

Before John has time to think, he’s off of the sofa, striding across the room towards Sherlock; freezing mere centimetres in front of him.

“Sherlock,” John repeats. “It’s _wonderful.”_

Sherlock says nothing; his eyes are wide, two spots of colour high upon his cheeks. He swallows; the muscles in his long, white throat contracting against the collar of his dark blue shirt, and John is left again feeling completely breathless.

John smiles a quiet smile and he leans in, taking Sherlock’s hand—an action that can’t be mistaken as anything but deliberate. A curl falls down into Sherlock’s left eye, and John lifts his other hand to softly brush it aside.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip, leaving little white teeth marks in the plump skin. He looks down at where their fingers are joined and stares; lost, dazzled, and flushed.

 

_It isn't your sweet conversation_

_That brings this sensation_

_Oh no, it's just the nearness of you..._

 

They are so, so close; John wonders what it might be like to be even closer.

Wonders what it might be like to take Sherlock’s elegant hands, to weave his own fingers around his thin wrist, to feel the softness of his skin.

Wonders what it might be like to pull Sherlock into him tightly, to wrap his arms around his waist, and sway to the music, their hearts elevated and beating against one another’s chests.

Wonders what it might be like to press his cheek against Sherlock’s paler one, to feel the soft, cool skin of it against his own.

John doesn’t want to wonder anymore.

“Sherlock. Would you… dance with me?” John asks, playing with the soft hair curled there at his temple. The request is simple, yet it feels very, very bold.

“Oh—” Sherlock says with a breathy sound. His lips remain shaped around the word, parted and pursed gently. He lifts his eyes, his gaze warm and deep and eager, and squeezes John’s hand in his own. “Yes.”

Running his thumb along the ridge of Sherlock’s knuckles to keep him tethered, John snakes an arm around Sherlock’s waist, placing his hand onto the small of his back. Sherlock sways backward into John’s touch, pulling John into him until their bodies are perfectly aligned. He lets John lift his arm, lets John hold him, lets John lead; and John struggles to breathe normally at the warm, silky feeling of him.

 

_When you're in my arms_

_And I feel you so close to me_

_All my wildest dreams come true_

 

Sherlock gingerly tips his head forward until he and John are cheek to cheek, and his hands flex tentatively on John’s waist as they sway gently to the song. They barely move outside of their own tiny circle on the carpet, cheeks pressed together, their breath loud and warm against one another’s skin.

John begins to rub a small circle at the base of Sherlock’s spine; he can feel his skin burning. Sherlock moves his cheek minutely against John’s to the rhythm of the music, and John’s skin tingles at the points of contact.

John’s fingers stray upwards over the soft fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, and his touch causes Sherlock to break out into a rush of shivers. His fingertips glide delicately over Sherlock’s rising and falling ribcage, slowly tracing circles there for a few silent moments as well.

 

_It's not the pale moon that excites me_

_That thrills and delights me_

_Oh no, it's just the nearness of you..._

 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s cheekbone, unclasping his fingers from Sherlock’s, gently wrapping them around his wrist.

“Doctor.” Sherlock catches John’s sleeve in his long fingers, silently pleading him not to move away, and John begins to trace delicate circles there in an achingly slow movement.

“Last night, I told you... that you drive me absolutely mad.” His fingers delicately graze along the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, and he relishes the coolness of the man’s skin underneath his. “That you’re clever, and brilliant, and gorgeous.”

Slowly, John slips his fingertips under the edge of Sherlock’s cuff, and is rewarded with a rattling sigh from the other man.

“I meant it.” John tilts his head almost imperceptibly, letting the edge of his lips drag over a sharp, soft cheekbone, whispering quietly into Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock, you are a work of art.”

Sherlock releases a shuddering gust of breath as John smiles against the blush-warmed skin of his cheeks. He responds by caressing them with his lips again, and again, and again, until Sherlock melts bonelessly against him.

John delicately sets his mouth against Sherlock’s jaw and lingers; and Sherlock’s sigh quickly turns into a sharp little intake of breath—not quite a gasp, but close enough to one that John smiles again.

 

_I need no soft lights to enchant me_

_If you will only grant me_

_The right to hold you ever so tight_

_And to feel in the night_

_The nearness of you..._

 

The song ends. There is complete silence in the room, broken only by the sounds of their heavy breathing.

Silky skin: warm, warm, _hot_ beneath John’s mouth as he skims it over to the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw. John can feel the skin flush warmer against his sensitive lips, and it sets his nerve endings alight with anticipation.

John slowly, slowly glides his lips upwards, towards to corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and when he finally breaks contact, Sherlock clutches his waist hard enough to bruise.

Lips. Pale, full, heart-shaped lips, hovering barely a breath away from John’s own. Not quite joined, but so, so close. Sherlock sighs; the slightest hint of voice behind it almost turns it into a hum, and John can taste the sound on his own mouth, sweet and soft and addictive.

John’s eyes fall shut.

_God._

If he doesn’t block out the way Sherlock looks right now—flushed, quietly joyous, _radiant_ —he’s afraid he may actually go blind at the sight of him.

The world is still and dark. There is nothing but the feeling of Sherlock Holmes in his arms, the feeling of Sherlock Holmes’ warm breath on his lips, warm breath on his jaw, warm breath against the skin of his neck, nothing but—

A kiss. Hot and steady; pressed tenderly, reverently at the base of John’s throat like a gift.

John’s eyes fly open; he grips a handful of Sherlock’s shirt in his fist as he gasps in surprise. Sherlock’s head is bent, his lips hovering centimetres away from John’s throat, and this, _this is happening,_ and all John wants is for him to do it again, please, again—

The underside of his jaw this time—barely there and gone again, like the graze of a butterfly’s wing. One against his collarbone, and another on his cheek, and his temple, and John shakily exhales into the prayerful quiet of it.

“Sherlock,” he says, because he has no idea what else to say. _Don’t stop,_ maybe, or _I can’t breathe,_ or _I crave you so much that it aches._

Their eyes lock. Someone is breathing heavily, and John can’t tell which one of them it is—maybe both of them, seeking the air that was sucked away the moment Sherlock Holmes set his perfect lips against John Watson’s skin.

Sherlock tilts his head forward, his chest rising and falling rapidly against John’s. He exhales, almost a sigh.

_“John.”_

John kisses him.  

It’s soft. Nothing more than a brush of lips against lips, a quiet, tentative question posed gently as they move together slowly. John pulls back; he doesn’t know if it’s all too much, if it’s all too soon, he isn’t sure—

Sherlock places a hand on the nape of John’s neck, fingers winding into his short hair, and places his forehead against John’s. “John,” he says again, and there’s something in his voice that sends John reeling forward again, lips seeking out Sherlock’s and finding them immediately.

“John,” Sherlock says, and kisses one corner of John’s mouth. “John,” he says, and kisses the other, and “John,” he whispers, and kisses John’s bottom lip so gently that John can barely even feel him there.

_John, John, John, John_

John presses back into the kiss, and Sherlock responds in a heartbeat; moves his mouth over John’s as John runs both hands up his spine, up his neck, into his dark, soft curls.

“Sherlock,” John answers, voice barely more than a ragged rasp. He scratches lightly at Sherlock’s scalp with his fingernails, and Sherlock’s whole body shivers.

John pulls lightly on Sherlock’s curls to get his head into the perfect angle. Sherlock complies willingly—a rare occurrence that John takes the time to savour—and John slots their lips together, dragging his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s until they fall open with a breathy gasp.

Sherlock kisses him back with an intensity that makes John weak in the knees. The hot-velvet slide of his tongue against John’s makes John let out a moan of his own, and Sherlock shivers again at the sound, holding onto John as if his own legs can no longer support him.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” John says, a surge of heat flooding through him, and he kisses Sherlock hard on the lips. Sherlock moans into his mouth as John steadily walks him backwards, backwards, backwards, propping him up between himself and the wall. He slides both hands into Sherlock’s thick, silky curls and tugs, and Sherlock breaks off the kiss, his head falling backwards, exposing a long, snow-white swath of neck in one liquid moment.

John kisses him there. Wet and open-mouthed against his carotid, he kisses him. Sherlock is making low, breathless noises; his hands pulling John ever closer to him.

 _“Joh—”_ Sherlock breaks off with a sharp inhalation, hands tugging and pulling as John kisses every single inch of that long, ivory neck he can reach. _“John,”_ he says again, and John nuzzles for a moment in the juncture of his neck and shoulder before slowly, lightly licking the heated skin that stretches against his collarbone.

 _“John.”_ Sherlock is limp and pliant and gasping, his head tipped back against the wall as if he doesn’t have the strength to hold it up. “John Watson, _kiss me,”_ he hisses, and John is helpless but to obey.

John licks into his mouth immediately, and Sherlock keens, digging his fingers into John’s shoulder blades. He is grabbing at John with something like desperation, his hands flitting from his arms to his shoulders and finally landing in John’s short hair.

John strokes at Sherlock’s hair, his scalp, his waist; Sherlock nips lightly at his bottom lip, and John holds him back as they kiss each other, tongues and lips and teeth working in tandem to set fireworks exploding across John’s skin.

Sherlock murmurs something against John’s lips as he lifts one leg and wraps it tightly around the back of John’s thighs. “Yes,” John says, his words a rush. “Yes, good.”

“Closer,” Sherlock mumbles. He hooks his arms around John’s neck, kissing him more and more and more—desperate, eager, half-starved. He is clutching onto John tight, tight, tight, as though he’s attempting to merge their two separate bodies into one.

“John,” Sherlock whines, pulling his lips away from John’s and then kissing him again, again, and again. _“Closer.”_

John slides his arms underneath Sherlock’s thighs, lifting him as Sherlock wraps both legs around John’s hips, and kisses him, hot and wet against the hollow between his clavicles.

Sherlock’s head falls back as he tenderly kisses his collarbone. _“John.”_ It’s a whimper this time.

“Yes. Yes, Love,” John says into Sherlock’s neck, lips parted as he mumbles against it, and Sherlock makes a soft noise of pleasure.

“Closer, John. Need to be…” He breaks off and raises his face again, giving John a plaintively desperate look before planting another long, wet, warm kiss on John’s mouth. He’s wriggling in John’s arms so enthusiastically that John fears he would drop him if not for the wall at his back.

John feels so much affection for this man that his chest might actually burst. “We’re as close as we can possibly get right now, Sherlock.” He wants to laugh, but he keeps his voice as steady as he can manage, running one hand through Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock plants unrelenting kisses on his mouth.

“I _need you_ _closer._ ” Sherlock begins to punctuate his kisses with teeth, tugging at John’s bottom lip. He kneads his fingers into the back of John’s neck, and then winds them into the collar of John’s shirt and pulls, and John lifts his head.

He takes in the sight of Sherlock as he tries to breathe. His hair is a mess, his eyes are a startling, feverish blue, contrasting vividly with the bright spots of red on his gorgeous cheekbones. His hair is wild from John’s fingers; his lips are red and moist and kiss-swollen, and there’s no way that John can ever stop kissing him again, is there?

With a low growl, John dives back towards Sherlock’s lips and plants another long, hard kiss.

He hitches Sherlock further up against his body, gripping his waist with one hand and the underside of his thigh with another, and he spins the two of them away from the wall without pulling his mouth away.

Another soft, happy noise stirs from Sherlock’s throat, and he kisses John back with so much unbridled passion that the two of them nearly topple over.

“Sherlock, hold _still,”_ John says. Or at least he tries to say it, but the words are swallowed up by Sherlock’s fervent lips on his. John tries to gain balance, but Sherlock shifts so much in his arms that John almost drops him again. “You’ve _got_ to hold still,” John repeats, finally pulling away and laughing breathlessly, “or I’m afraid we’re not going to make it very far.”

“John,” Sherlock softly says, defeated; he buries his head in John’s hair affectionately and stays there.

“That’s it, just…” John continues his walk towards Sherlock’s bedroom, long limbs awkwardly wrapped around him. “Don’t move for a minute, okay?” He laughs again. “Oh my _God,_ you’re heavy for such a lanky thing.”

Sherlock laughs with John, reluctantly unwrapping his legs from their tight knot around him, and John shifts his hands to Sherlock’s waist as he slides down, feet hitting the floor. He doesn’t unwrap his arms, though; holding on so tightly, it’s as if he’s scared that John will simply disappear.

“Stay,” Sherlock implores, clutching John’s hand with his and pressing it against his cheek. “John, please tell me that you’ll stay.”

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his heart feeling so, so full.

“I don’t… I don’t want to wake up alone tomorrow.” Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist and pulls him closer. “I don’t want to have to battle my brain to stop thinking about you anymore. I don’t want to miss you. So please. Just stay.”

John feels another surge of affection so fierce that he can’t breathe for a moment. “I don’t want you to wake up alone tomorrow either, Love,” he murmurs reassuringly. “Of course I’m going to stay. I’ll stay here with you for as long as you want me.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes drift shut as John strokes his fingers gently. “I feel I should warn you, John,” he says, and John’s blood sings to the sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips. “... that may be a very long time.”

John leans in and tucks his head against Sherlock’s breastbone, sliding his arm around to trace long lines up Sherlock’s spine. “God. I really, really hope so.”

“Good. That’s… good,” Sherlock says with the faintest tremble in his voice. “I really, really hope so as well.”

John hums happily, pressing his cheek into Sherlock’s chest, when it occurs to him: there had been something about Sherlock’s tone—something hesitant, something small.

He looks up at Sherlock; and his blissful expression now carries an undercurrent of something else unspoken. His brow is furrowed, his eyes are scared, and he seems nervous and almost distraught.

John feels the immediate urge to pull him back in and kiss him until he forgets; to hold him, to touch him, to whisper words of affection until he feels nothing but safe in John’s arms.

So, in that moment, in the tiny doorway to Sherlock’s bedroom, that’s exactly what John Watson does. And though it has taken them many moments to get there, John realises this is everything he needs: Sherlock Holmes in his arms, smelling of coffee and honey and tobacco, unguarded and open and raw and kissing him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Sherlock plays for John is ["The Nearness of You"](https://open.spotify.com/track/6Hni9iXlQuUTgglfSBS3gQ?si=tkcd14G1RqKSLPH-DLaqaQ) as performed by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong.


	8. Jelly Beans in Love at a Party Pretending They Ain’t All That Aren’t Fooling Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Happy birthday again, Mate,” John says with a friendly smile as he pats Mike on the shoulder. “Hope you’re having fun tonight.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, thanks, Mate,” Mike responds, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m having a great time, for sure. Though maybe not as much fun as you’re having with that bloke in the coat you despise so much.”_

It’s well past time for John to be on his way to art class.

But as he wakes up, his senses are filled with the smell of coffee and eggs; the sounds of the sizzling frying pan and Sherlock quietly humming Tchaikovsky in the kitchen, and he can’t be bothered to care one bit.

It’s nearly perfect—the only thing he’s lacking is the soft and warm sensation of Sherlock lying in bed next to him.

John retrieves his phone from the nightstand, switches off all of his alarms for the day, and begins to compose a text message.

 

_I thought the intention was for the two of us to wake up together._

_Those had better be some bloody good eggs you're making._

_Good morning, John. -SH_

_I apologise. I have been awake for hours now, and I wanted to do something worthwhile. -SH_

_Lying in bed together is perfectly worthwhile. Come back. It’s cold in here._

_I’ll be there in four minutes. With eggs and coffee to warm you up. -SH_

_And you. I want you to warm me up, too._

_Gladly. -SH_

 

When Sherlock returns to his bedroom, John is quietly amazed. Sherlock has prepared a simple meal, and it’s lovely. There’s coffee, and tea, toast, and various different types of egg dishes, all put together on a fancy silver tray.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John says, voice still scratchy with sleep. “You didn’t have to do all this…”

Sherlock sets the tray on the nightstand, smiling down as John watches him. “I never do anything I don’t choose to do, John,” he says firmly.

John smiles as he takes Sherlock by the hand and pulls him down onto the bed. Sherlock willingly wraps his long body tightly against John as John encircles him with his arms.

“I’m very much looking forward to skipping art class with you, you know,” John says in a low voice, nuzzling against Sherlock’s temple.   

Sherlock is staring at him when he pulls away, his eyes wide, lips parted in a silent ‘O’ of surprise. It’s one of the most adorable things John has ever witnessed: this sleepy, happy, surprised Sherlock, lying next to John in bed, a tray of food that he cooked sitting on the nightstand.

“I forgot all about art class,” he admits.  

John begins to stroke up and down Sherlock’s spine in a gentle trail. “Good,” he says. “Let’s continue to forget about it for now. Because it’s not often that I’m in bed with a beautiful genius.”

Sherlock’s eyes begin to flutter at John's touch, and John notices a flush spread across his cheekbones and down his neck. “I—” he says, his breath slightly stuttering. “I like when you call me that.”

“Yeah?” John says, squeezing the skin at the small of Sherlock’s back with one hand while bringing his other hand to stroke the side of Sherlock’s face tenderly.

Sherlock reaches over, pressing his palms flat on the mattress on either side of John’s body. He drags himself upwards on both arms to hover a few inches above John and leans down, locking eyes with John’s steady gaze.

“Say it again,” he whispers, his eyes wide and bright. There’s something like longing there, and John is sure that that same expression is reflected back in his own.

“Genius.” John cups Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Beautiful genius.”

John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pulling his head down and gently pressing their lips together.

“Genius,” John mumbles once again against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock smiles as John cups the back of his head with both hands and pushes him in to deepen the kiss.

There is no way John will ever be close enough to this man.

And yeah, this is _definitely_ better than art class.

 

***

 

_Hi. It’s only been a couple of hours, but I miss you. Am I crazy?_

_Hm. Difficult to say. -SH_

_But if you’re crazy, so am I. -SH_

_I’m really glad you’re going to be at Mike’s party tonight._

_John, can I ask you something? -SH_

_What purpose will it serve, exactly? To have me there? -SH_

_Well, I guess having you there is actually the purpose._

_I like spending time with you, you know._

_That’s a good reason. -SH_

_I should probably warn you in advance, though: my brother is a meddler, and if he finds out I’m there, and you’re there, and we’re… there… at the same time... it’s highly likely that he will kidnap you and interrogate you. -SH_

_Ha. Funny._

_I wish I could say I were joking. -SH_

_The Dean doesn’t scare me one bit, Sherlock._

_But if it will make you feel better, I solemnly swear not to blatantly snog you in front of others._

_I never agreed to that plan. -SH_

_Fine. I’ll plant a giant wet one on you the second you walk in._

_Then people will definitely talk._

_People do little else. But yes. Please do that. -SH_

_Deal. ;)_

_In all seriousness—perhaps for now, as much as I dislike such a prospect, it might serve us well to remain somewhat composed in public. -SH_

_Sure. I’ll be on my best behaviour, if you’ll be on yours._

_Good. I’ll see you tonight. -SH_

_Can’t wait._

 

***

 

“You know, he’s seen you approximately three thousand times before,” Irene says from behind Sherlock where she’s perched on his bed. “It doesn’t matter what you wear tonight, Love, because you’ve already _made_ the impression.”

“And I can guarantee it’s a good one,” Molly adds, sitting cross-legged beside her.

Sherlock rolls his eyes from where he stands in front of his wardrobe, black dress shirt unbuttoned, hands on his hips. “I’m not dressing for… for _him,”_ he lies. “I’m simply being… fashion-forward.”

Irene raises one very unimpressed eyebrow at him and crosses her arms; Molly grins.

Sherlock snatches his dark blue shirt off of its hanger and puts that on instead, buttoning it up quickly, eyeing Molly and Irene in the mirror that hangs on the inside door of his wardrobe.

“If you’re looking for advice—” Molly muses, crossing her legs over to the other side.

“I’m not,” Sherlock interrupts, tucking his tails into his waistband.

“—then I’d suggest you wear your purple shirt,” she continues blithely, as if he hadn’t spoken. “It looks quite nice on you. Very eye-catching.”

Sherlock pauses. While Molly Hooper doesn’t exactly have what he would consider stellar fashion sense, she _does_ have a good eye. And besides, Irene is nodding along, which is a good sign.

God. Sherlock can’t believe he’s actually agreed to go to a party. But such is John’s power over him, he supposes.

 _“It’s Mike’s birthday party,”_ John had tentatively explained earlier that morning as the two of them had lain together in Sherlock’s bed. _“You know Mike, right? You’ve taken a few chem labs together.”_

 _“Yes. Sure, yes, Mike,”_ Sherlock had said, nodding perhaps a bit too vigorously.

He doesn’t remember who Mike is.

But there’s no way he could have said no. Even if he had wanted to. Even if he despises parties, and people, and alcohol and general merriment, he’d agreed to go. Because John will be there, and as he has recently discovered, he doesn’t despise John.  

“Alright.” Sherlock hesitantly turns back to his wardrobe, unbuttons his current shirt, divests himself of it (revealing, of course, a very posh undershirt that causes Irene to give a sort of odd high-pitched whistle), and he takes the purple shirt off its hanger.

“Yes,” Irene says before he even puts it on. “John will _definitely_ like that one.”

Sherlock feels a stir in his stomach, but attempts to not let his excitement show on his face. He can’t, however, stop the heat that’s gathering at the tips of his ears, broadcasting his embarrassment loud and clear.

And that’s all Irene needs to see. “Ohhhh, getting a bit worked up, are we? You like it when the Doctor gives you a little bit of attention, hmm?” she prods in a lilting tone, and Molly smacks her on the arm.

“I—er.” Sherlock stammers as the blush spreads over his entire face and an irritating grin beyond his control pulls on his lips. _“No,”_ he says, as though blatantly lying about it might cause the feeling to go away.

It doesn’t.

“Look at how happy he is,” Molly coos, her eyes wide as she beams at him. “Oh, Sherlock. You and John are just _so—”_

Irene grins. “Reminds me of the two of us when we first—”

“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” Molly says fondly, pecking Irene softly on the lips.

Sherlock makes a disgusted sound at the back of his throat as he buttons the shirt. God, he sincerely hopes he and John are not that utterly sickening.

“I’m serious,” Molly says, pulling away from her girlfriend with a satisfied smile. “I spoke to John earlier today and… well, it’s clear that he’s currently on cloud nine. All seems to be going well, yeah?”

Sherlock can feel himself smiling as he does up the last of the buttons on his shirt.

 _Going well,_ indeed.

Going so well that it scares the hell out of him, to be quite honest.

Going so well that he’s afraid he’s going to mess it up somehow.

Going so well that he’s still not completely sure it’s really happening and isn’t simply some wonderful dream he’ll soon wake up from.

Going so well that Sherlock is not sure that John has had enough time to think about all of the implications of the two of them seeing one another. Namely, the fact that John… well, John is _liked_ by people, and Sherlock... is not.

He’s not going to pretend that he hasn’t made enemies during his four years at university. But John—John is loved by everyone, and for good reason, too. He’s lovable. Really, really lovable. And the people who love him are definitely going to have things to say about Sherlock.

 

_Sherlock Holmes? The Dean’s brother?_

_Sherlock Holmes? The one who made the chemistry lab explode?_

_Sherlock Holmes? The one who likes to make professors cry with his mere words?_

 

When John is reminded of those things, he’s going to think, and Sherlock doesn’t want John to think. Well, not about this, anyway.

And then, there’s also the matter of Sherlock’s brother. His horribly overprotective, prying, controlling brother, who had always warned Sherlock against the disadvantages of romantic attachments. A distraction from what truly matters, he’d said; and as such, any prospect Sherlock had ever deemed slightly worthy of his affection had always been promptly scared off by Mycroft’s antics.

But none of them had even come close to John. And though Sherlock is sure that John would never cower to his brother, he doesn’t want the opportunity to find out.

“You look gorgeous,” Irene says, coming up behind him and pulling his thoughts back to the present. “Doesn’t he, Molly?” She takes hold of his elbow and turns him around, showing him off as Molly claps with overzealous appreciation.

“Beautiful,” Molly agrees as she gets off of the bed. “John won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”

“He is going to lose his mind,” Irene agrees with delight as she and Molly march him out of his bedroom and wrestle him into his coat.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at their antics, but appreciates them all the same. They help to settle his nerves just a bit, to take his mind off of the evening ahead, and all of the things that could go terribly, horribly wrong.

 

***

 

John has been nodding along to something Mike is saying about the endocrine system for the past fifteen minutes.

The party started an hour ago, and Sherlock still hasn’t arrived, and that’s all John can think about right now.

He tries to appear as though he’s at least passingly interested in the conversation; tries not to stare in anticipation at the front door, but he can’t can’t quell the anxiety brewing deep in his stomach.

 _It’s okay,_ he reminds himself. _He’s probably coming along with Irene, and Irene enjoys being fashionably late to everything. So it makes sense that he wouldn’t be here yet, right?_

Mike is gesturing animatedly with a bottle of beer in one hand and a party hat in the other, and thankfully there are three or four other people that are part of this conversation, because John’s pretty sure he’s doing a terrible job at looking like he cares.

And even though he’s been trying for nonchalance, his head whips around and his heart does flips when he hears the front door open, and the sound of Irene’s voice greeting people as she enters.

He takes a step outside of the circle of people in order to get a better view. Irene swans into the flat, dressed in her usual gorgeous, contemporary style. She’s carrying a bottle of champagne under one arm and holding Molly’s hand. Molly trails behind her, carrying a large box wrapped in polka dot wrapping paper, then—

John lets out an audible sigh of relief, and immediately can’t breathe again; because Sherlock has just stolen every ounce of oxygen from the room.

As he enters, the place immediately buzzes with quiet whispers and murmurs of disbelief that _Sherlock Holmes has actually come to a party._ He gracefully removes his coat and scarf, every eye watching him, as usual; only this time _,_ he actually watches one person back.

John’s face flushes instantly when those vibrant blue eyes pin him down, and he’s sure he’s simply imagined the faint sound that escapes his throat. The entire world fades, and in that second, there is only the two of them; the room becoming dark as though John is looking through tunnel vision.  

Sherlock flashes John a ghost of a smile, so faint that if John hadn’t been staring at him so grotesquely he wouldn’t have even noticed.

It’s just enough to reassure him: _I see you._

John smiles back at him, an unguarded smile of relief, and it’s only then that John notices that Mike, Molly, and Irene are staring at the both of them as well. Expectantly, with knowing grins, as if they’re dying to say something. But mercifully, they don’t.

“Welcome,” Mike greets them affably, because apparently John has forgotten how to speak. “Let’s pop open that bottle of champagne, shall we?”

Irene leans in to give Mike a kiss on the cheek. “Sounds lovely,” she says. “Happy birthday, Darling.” She backs away and turns to John, leaning in to kiss him as well. John expects a sarcastic comment from her, but instead, she says something genuine: “In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never willingly come to a social event. Good job, you.”

His eyes flash back over to Sherlock, his heart expanding, and Sherlock meets them for a half-second before smiling shyly and tucking his face into the collar of his shirt. John remembers, for a moment, the feeling of Sherlock’s lips against his; the way he had clung to John while kissing him, his eyes bright and his cheeks dark. John swallows.

After a few seconds, Sherlock’s expression settles to a relaxed, detached grin, and he breaks his eyes away from John’s to scan the crowd of people. For a moment, John worries—worries that Sherlock regrets coming to the party, that this is all too much, and maybe he’s going to leave, and—

Sherlock’s gaze return to John’s, and he lifts one eyebrow at him provocatively. “I’ll be outside smoking,” he casually drawls, locking eyes with John meaningfully as he does. Without waiting for a response, he turns elegantly to exit the flat.

As John watches him go, he has to bite his own lip to keep himself from calling out to him. And John tries to not be incredibly obvious about how much _watching_ is occurring, but the shirt Sherlock is wearing is hugging his curves tightly, and the way his hips move as he saunters away is too much for John to look away from.

“Oh. John, Darling,” Irene’s voice chimes in from beside him. “I think I may have dropped my lipstick in the stairwell on the way in; would you be a dear and go fetch it for me?” John turns his head to look over at her; and she winks. “Can’t possibly go without the red for a party, you know?”

“Y-yeah. Sure.” John nods enthusiastically at her. “Yeah, I got you. In the stairwell—very important. The lip… stuff. On it.” John is following Sherlock before he even realises that his feet are moving, weaving through the people in the room and making it to the door in record time, leaving his friends behind, struggling to stifle their laughter.

 

***

 

John pushes the door open, taking the steps two at a time until he’s standing in the entryway. And there he is: Sherlock, leaning against the brick face of the flat, cigarette in hand and smile on his lips, looking utterly delicious as he blows smoke out into the frosty air.

John says nothing as he approaches Sherlock, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to him, yanking the cigarette out of Sherlock’s hand and throwing it to the ground in one quick movement.

He presses one hand onto the back of Sherlock’s neck and the other onto his hip bone before sealing their mouths together for a hungry kiss. Sherlock makes a muffled noise of surprise beneath John’s lips and then immediately melts into the kiss, parting his own lips as he brings his hands up to tightly squeeze John’s waist.  

Sherlock’s lips are the softest satin, smooth and plush and full against John’s mouth; it’s the most wonderful sensation that he’s ever experienced. He tastes like tobacco and honey and thunderstorms; he kisses as though he’s drowning and John is precious air.

“You know, Sherlock,” John mumbles as he kisses Sherlock’s bottom lip, nipping at it lightly with his teeth. Sherlock makes a noise, chasing John’s mouth with his own as John pulls back again. “I’m really fucking torn right now.”

“Torn?” Sherlock mumbles as he slides a hand into John’s hair to hold him still. “Torn over what?” John’s hands wander up and down Sherlock’s hips and waist, tracing the contours of his ribcage as Sherlock’s tongue dances along the inside of John’s bottom lip, the edge of his teeth.

“Well,” John says, even has he lets Sherlock continue to kiss him soundly. “The doctor in me wants to lecture you on the dangers of smoking.” He swirls his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip for a second before continuing. “However, the hot-blooded male in me just wants to continue kissing the hell out of you.”

“John,” Sherlock says in between kisses, and John smiles as he struggles to say the words. “As you... are so quick... to remind me… you are not a doctor... yet. So I... believe… you should... just shut up... and kiss me.”

John pulls back, and they watch each other for a moment. “Hm,” John says in a low tone. “You’re probably right.”

John takes Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth again and bites a little bit harder this time, and Sherlock whimpers in the back of his throat. He strokes John’s neck with long, delicate fingers as John licks his lip gently, soothing the place that he’d irritated; John sucks that perfect, perfect lip softly for just a moment, but it’s enough for Sherlock’s whimper to turn into low moan that makes John’s whole body flush with warmth.

Sherlock moves luxuriously against him, his arms remaining twined about John’s neck as John pins him to the wall and continues to kiss him with a hot, wet intensity. He slides his hands up Sherlock’s back over his silky purple shirt, only a thin layer of fabric between Sherlock’s hot skin and John’s palms, and in a languid movement, he presses one leg between Sherlock’s thighs, tracing the edge of Sherlock’s tongue with his own.

“You’re a genius, John,” Sherlock murmurs against John’s lips, kissing the corner of his mouth slowly.

“Oh, really?” John pulls at the fabric of his shirt. It slides free from Sherlock’s waistband, and John’s hands wander, insinuating themselves under the hem and brushing against the bare flesh of Sherlock’s lower back.

“Inviting me to this party was a good idea, brilliant idea, one of your best ideas…” Sherlock trails off, his breathing ragged as he mouths a line of warm kisses along John’s neck before resting his head on John’s shoulder.

“Mm, you know, I really think so, too,” John says, playful amusement in his tone. His fingers trace the individual vertebrae of Sherlock’s spine, and Sherlock’s skin raises in goosebumps beneath as he shivers against John.

They both know it’s got nothing to do with the cold.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs as he curls up against John; long, thin spine arching against his touch. John holds him gently, kissing the side of his head as he sighs and hums into John’s skin. The two of them breathe heavily, puffs of breath turning to pale frost on the frigid air, blood racing through their veins and hearts beating in their chests, and—

The front door of the flat slams open abruptly; loud voices and music come roaring out.

“Shit—” John hisses as the two of them spring apart, panting.

John ducks slightly, peering at the stairwell in an attempt to see who had interrupted. Somebody that he doesn’t recognise is coming down the steps, the small orange light of a cigarette visible in the darkness.

Sherlock groans with dissatisfaction, his eyes still enormous, his curls tousled on top of his head. Tersely clearing his throat, he throws a pained glance in the direction of the stairwell. “Smoking will _kill you,_ you know, _”_ he growls in the general vicinity of the stranger. “So _kindly_ put out your cigarette so that we can—”

John presses his hand over Sherlock’s mouth to keep him from continuing. “Hush, you,” he says with a laugh. “You’ve got absolutely no right to lecture them, you git.”

Sherlock huffs into John’s palm and frowns, a crease forming over the bridge of his nose that John finds irresistible.

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock says after delicately prying John’s fingers off of his face. “But it’s difficult to think about that when I’m so incredibly arous—”

John’s hand flies up to cover Sherlock’s mouth again. _“Sherlock,”_ he admonishes, though his attempt to sound firm is overridden by the crackles of amusement in his voice. “Come on. Let’s leave this poor person to it and go back inside.”

Sherlock sighs dramatically, slumping his entire body downwards in a sulky manner, which, against all better judgement, John _also_ finds irresistible.

“The night is young, Sherlock.” John peeks up to ensure that nobody is watching before leaning in to place a short, chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “There will be plenty of time for us to continue this later. I promise.”  

Sherlock emits the tiniest whimper as John breaks the kiss. _“Fine,”_ he huffs. “I’ll join you inside. After one more cigarette.”  

John knows he should make time later to argue with Sherlock about that cigarette, but he thinks he’d prefer to spend time kissing him instead.

 

***

 

Throughout the evening, as John circulates the room, taking the time to talk to various people he knows, his eyes never venture far away from Sherlock.

Sometimes, when John’s eyes are on Sherlock, Sherlock stares back at him so intently that it feels like he’s touching him. And sometimes, when John’s eyes are on Sherlock, Sherlock will simply stand with his back against the wall smiling, a tiny lift of his lips—sliding his fingers over the collar of his shirt, lightly placing them on his pale neck.

And when Sherlock does _that_ in particular, John _knows_ he knows what it does to John, and John sort of wants to kick his arse for that.

But first, John would like to march straight across the room and kiss Sherlock right then, right there. And then he’d kick his arse. And then he’d probably kiss him after that, too.

As someone walks by, probably NOT intentionally blocking his line of sight from this gorgeous man (but it irritates John anyway), John briefly breaks eye contact and realises that Mike is seated next to him on the sofa.

John thinks he should probably… talk to him. Or something.

“Happy birthday again, Mate,” John says with a friendly smile as he pats him on the shoulder. “Hope you’re having fun tonight.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mate,” Mike responds, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m having a great time, for sure. Though maybe not as much fun as _you’re_ having with that bloke in the coat you despise so much.”

John, in the middle of a sip of beer, nearly spits his drink everywhere. His face immediately turns beet red, and his eyes dart back to where Sherlock is standing, and he hopes to God he hadn’t seen _that_ embarrassing display. But Sherlock seems to be engaged in a conversation with Irene and Molly, so John silently thanks them for being intoxicated and chatty.

John swallows and gives Mike a tentative smile, his face burning. “I, erm… I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about, Mike.”

“John.” Both of Mike’s eyebrows lift to his hairline as he huffs out a short laugh, staring at John in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not _blind.”_

John shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. “Erm. Kidding about what?” he says a bit tightly.

“I’ve seen the googly eyes you two have been making at each other tonight.” Mike nods, looking benevolent and content with whatever he thinks he sees. “But you’ve always done a bit of that, even before you started snogging each other.”

 _“Mike!”_ John gapes at him, opening and closing his mouth ridiculously as every word leaves his brain.

“No worries, Mate.” Mike sets a hand on John’s shoulder and squeezes lightly, grinning at him. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Though you might want to inform the girls—” He nods in the direction of Irene and Molly, who are giggling as they chatter conspiratorially— “... that their _whisper-screaming_ is much more on the side of _screaming_ than _whispering.”_

John groans with embarrassment, but his lips curve up into a smile. “Thanks, Mike,” he says, laughing genuinely. He supposes there’s no use in trying to hide it from Mike; he does live with him, so it would only be a matter of time before he found out. “I mean, it’s new, and all,” John continues, “and with his brother being the Dean, we’re not really—”

“No need to explain.” Mike shakes his head lightly, pursing his lips together. “You seem to really fancy one another, and I can tell you’re happy.”

Mike continues the conversation, and John nods absentmindedly along, but as his eyes meet Sherlock’s again from across the room, John tunes him out almost completely.

Sherlock is leaning against the wall next to Irene as she points at people, probably saying rude things about their outfits, or their boyfriends, or whatever, but he isn’t paying attention to her. He is pinning John with his gaze, eyes piercingly blue and filled with adoration.

John knows he probably looks the same.

Sherlock gives John a coy smile before slowly reaching into his pocket and removing a pack of cigarettes—ensuring they are visible to John—and then he turns to walk outside.

John darts up from his seat before he has a chance to think. “I’ll talk to you later, Mike,” he nods decisively. “Cigarette.”

Mike stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open as he stares at John with confusion. “You don’t smoke, Mate.”

“No,” John says, flashing a grin as he watches Sherlock wind through the crowd to exit. “But _he_ does.”

Mike follows John’s gaze, an expression of realisation settling onto his face. “Oh, right,” he says, taking another drink of beer. “You ought to tell him to quit,” he adds as he reaches over to the coffee table for a bag of crisps, but John is already out the door.

 

***

 

That evening, whenever he and John aren’t sneaking out into the stairwell to engage in one of their secret recreational activities—or into the garden, or into the bathroom, or into the wardrobe, or into the oversized kitchen cupboard—Sherlock stands around, silently ignoring everyone as he watches John, and John watches him back.

He even ignores Irene and Molly a little bit. They understand.

And Sherlock doesn’t normally drink champagne, but he’s drinking it tonight, because the way John is continuously gazing at him, blue eyes heated, is most certainly cause for celebration. That, and it’s apparently the round man with the crisps and the party hat’s bar mitzvah, or something like that.

The more champagne Sherlock drinks, the more fun he begins to have, and the more bold he becomes in his “secretive” flirtations with John.  

Secretly passing John in the kitchen, or the corridor, or the sitting room; standing the tiniest bit too close—secretly brushing his shoulders against John as John secretly presses back. Secretly joining the table where John is playing some card game with annoying people, and secretly squeezing John’s hand underneath the table while John secretly strokes his palm. Secretly sitting on the sofa next to John during a conversation with Molly, secretly letting his hand brush against his upper thigh as John lets out a tiny secret sigh.

There’s a profound thrill to it all; a deep excitement in knowing that he and John have something hidden—something special between the two of them, tucked away from the rest of the world.

That night, however, as Sherlock watches John, there are moments when John does _not_ watch him back; moments when John watches other people instead. Chatting with them, probably about jazz, or about forgetting to do the dishes, or steak, or about the heat death of the universe; giving them charming smiles as he shows off his brilliant manners and intellect and warmth.

Sherlock finds that when these moments occur for a long period of time, he drinks champagne at a higher rate than normal.

Just as Sherlock swallows nearly half a glass in one gulp, Irene passes him by; stopping and lifting an eyebrow in a concerned, inquisitive manner. She turns her head and sees John, who is talking with some female he knows, from a class he took, one time, probably, he thinks, but he can’t remember how he knows her exactly—but that doesn’t really matter, because he’s watching _her_ and not _Sherlock._

“You two are hopeless idiots, I swear,” Irene says as she rolls her eyes. “Do you honestly think you’ve got a single thing to worry about? He’s the host of the party; he’s _got_ to speak to all of his guests.”

Sherlock silently ignores Irene and leans back against the wall to drink champagne and sulk some more. And he tries not to keep watching John as John watches other people, but he can’t help it—because when John is in the room, and Sherlock’s eyes are not on him, they almost feel as though they’re burning, and—oh.

John is _finally_ looking up from his conversation, and he’s looking at _him._ And he’s smiling, and the fuzzy warmth that overcomes Sherlock is definitely much more than the champagne.

Sherlock can’t help but smile back at him; a genuine, big, authentic smile; but John breaks eye contact and returns to the conversation.

Sherlock feels as though someone has just ripped away his lifeline.

He needs John to look back up.

So he leans against the wall and runs his fingers delicately, seductively, through his own hair, but John doesn’t look up.

He tilts his head and unfastens the top button of his shirt to expose his long, white neck, but John doesn’t look up.

He reaches into his pocket, fumbling around for his cigarettes, but John doesn’t look up.

He pulls out the box of cigarettes so quickly that he drops them onto the floor, but John. Doesn’t. Look. Up.

He slowly, slowly bends down to fetch the box of cigarettes, his long torso stretched and curved to accentuate his greatest assets, and John _still doesn’t look up._

Sherlock, in his current state of intoxication, nearly stomps over to kiss John _hard_ on the lips to get his attention, but he is stopped by a hand falling lightly onto his shoulder. Small, slender fingers. Well-manicured nails. Female.

“Hello, there,” purrs a voice Sherlock doesn’t recognise as she runs her palm from his shoulder down to his forearm, pressing lightly. “I just _love_ your shirt.”

Sherlock steadies his balance, blinking at the woman as she gazes back, her fingers stroking the silky fabric on his sleeve.

Her smile is big, cordial, and warm; her skin is smooth, almost golden. She’s got long, dark hair, falling down to her mid-back in gentle waves; her face is heart-shaped, cheeks soft and slightly flushed from alcohol consumption. He thinks to himself, objectively, that she’s actually quite pretty, if females are your thing.

“Thanks,” he says, not quite sure how else to respond to this odd, drunken, overly-familiar person who is suddenly touching him. “I like your nail polish,” he says, because he does, and because he has no idea what else to say. “Chanel’s Autumn line?”

“Yes!” The woman responds, not letting her look of admiration fade as she squeezes Sherlock’s arm excitedly. Her eyes widen slightly as she smiles. “Oh, you’re good.”

Sherlock’s eyes involuntarily flash to John.

John is finally looking up, now; his eyes are completely glued to Sherlock, apparently very interested in what he’s doing.

_Hmm._

“Hi,” the woman says with a warm lilt, placing her hands on her hips. “I’m Janine, and you are—”

Sherlock tears his eyes away from John. “I’m Sh—”

“Bloody gorgeous, if I may be so bold,” she interrupts loudly. Her eyes are wide with appreciation as she blatantly scans Sherlock’s features; given her drunken state, Sherlock finds it more humorous than disturbing. “Those _lips,”_ she gushes. “You couldn’t _pay_ to have a Cupid’s Bow like that. I’ll bet your boyfriend can’t stop kissing you for a single second.”

Sherlock lets out an unexpected, authentic laugh; his chest expands at her use of the word “boyfriend.”

Janine quietly giggles and leans forward, dropping her voice low. “That’s him watching right now, yeah?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen with mild panic. Oh, God, he’s being _far_ too obvious in his John-watching, isn’t he?

Janine winks at him. “Don’t worry. You haven’t given yourself away. I can see his reflection in the kitchen cupboard.” She tilts her head to gesture at the large glass door behind him. “Clearly a bit green-eyed, isn’t he? Hasn’t stopped you from talking to me, though,” she says with a glimmer of understanding in her expression. “Trying to get his attention?”

Sherlock smiles, admittedly impressed by this strange female’s deduction skills. Hm. Perhaps not _every_ person at this party besides John is maddeningly boring.

Sherlock lets his bottom lip creep forward to form the tiniest pout as he focuses on Janine. “He’s been ignoring me for the past ten minutes,” he admits. “And it’s _infuriating.”_

Janine inhales a deep, theatrical gasp as her hands come flying over her sternum. “How _dare_ he take his eyes off of your gorgeous face for a single second!” She laughs and leans in towards Sherlock, her mouth hovering just over his ear. “You want some help?”

She is standing so closely to Sherlock that he can feel her breath on his jaw. He peeks over her shoulder at John, who is watching them very closely—eyes wide and dark, with an undivided intensity that causes something to stir deep and low in Sherlock’s abdomen.

Janine leans away, and Sherlock takes a drink of his champagne as he stares at her coquettishly over his thin plastic glass. “Yes,” he says with a grin.

Janine grins back at him before placing her hand back on Sherlock’s shoulder, her eyes almost comically wide. “Beautiful!” she croons loudly. “Your skin, so flawless; your cheekbones, so sharp; your _hair._ So smooth. So shiny. _”_ She gingerly lifts her hand as if she’s considering touching his hair, but she stops herself less than a finger’s width away. She pauses, hovering over the side of Sherlock’s scalp before she pulls it back and sets both of her hands to the sides of her face. “What product do you use?” she asks.

Sherlock shifts his head a bit, sneaking a side-eye at John. John’s tongue darts over his bottom lip, his face dark, his eyes positively _feral._

Sherlock can’t say he’s not enjoying this.

“Hair product?” Sherlock asks, tousling his curls dramatically through his long fingers, ensuring he gives her (John) a proper show of it. “It’s a special mixture I order from Switzerland.”

Janine wraps her hands around both of Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him in once more to whisper in his ear; this time, though, Sherlock wraps his long fingers around her elbows and squeezes them lightly; a smile on his face that can't be interpreted as anything but smug.

“You know,” Janine whispers as she runs her finger tips down the sides of his arms. “If you were to, say, give me the contact information to the company that sells your hair product, the casual observer might assume that the two of us are exchanging phone numbers.”

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock considers this for a moment as Janine pulls away and reaches into her purse. He’s trying valiantly to keep himself from looking at John _again,_ but his eyes are burning, and it’s becoming more and more difficult.

“What do you say, then?” Janine says with a half-smile, mobile in the palm of her hand, ready to type.

Sherlock looks over at John; he can’t help it anymore.

John is out of his seat and standing, now; his jaw and fist clenched. He’s swaying back and forth on his feet as though he’s trying to stop himself from darting over to Sherlock.

 _God,_ Sherlock thinks. He has seen John Watson slightly heated before, but not like this. John, who is typically polite and proper, now looks utterly uninhibited, completely out of control.

Sherlock swallows, the warmth coiling sinuously low in his stomach now spreading throughout his limbs, up through his chest and leaking into his blood.

He doesn’t know what _this_ John Watson might be capable of doing, but he thinks it might be earth-shattering, and he’s dying to find out.

So he reaches into his pocket for his mobile phone.

 

***

 

In a dark corner of the sitting room, Molly pulls Irene closer, both hands on her waist as she kisses her soft lips slowly. Irene runs her fingers through Molly’s long hair, stroking her cheek with tender, steady touches, tugging her back a little bit until they are more fully hidden out of sight from the rest of the room—

“Oh, Sherlock,” Irene breathes, breaking the kiss and staring avidly over her girlfriend’s shoulder at something.

"Excuse me?” Molly furrows her brow. “That’s a bit unnerving, to say the least—” She goes to turn her head, but Irene stops her with a hand on her cheek.

“Try not to be obvious when you look,” Irene says, kissing the corner of Molly’s mouth in a placating way. “But oh my god. _Look behind you.”_

“Alright,” Molly sighs. It isn’t that she’s not excited to see what’s happening, but Irene is so beautiful right now in the low lighting of this room, and it’s _distracting._ She leans in, kissing Irene on the cheek in resignation before turning nonchalantly.

She searches the crowded room until her eyes land on John. He appears tense; his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched, his arms crossed, eyes locked on…

Sherlock. And the beautiful, drunk, and overly-friendly girl who is standing very, very close to him.

“Oh, _no,”_ Molly breathes, her hands flying up to cover her own mouth in surprise.

The woman advances ever further upon Sherlock, hand on his arm, smile wide and pretty as she whispers something in his ear.

“John’s always been the jealous type, hasn’t he?” Irene says as she slides an arm around Molly’s waist, tugging her until they are hip-to-hip.

“Yep,” Molly says as she rests her head on Irene’s shoulder. “And quite frenzied and passionate about it as well.”

“Sherlock,” Irene says in a chiding manner as she excitedly tightens her grip on Molly’s waist, watching shamelessly as the drama unfolds. “You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you? You clever, clever boy.”

The girl has still got her hand on Sherlock’s arm, smiling and flushing as she talks a mile a minute, and then her hand begins to shift upwards towards Sherlock’s hair, and she pauses—

Irene cringes. Molly gasps.

“Oh, shit,” they whisper in unison.

“Is she going to…” Molly grabs on to Irene’s arm.

“She’s going to _touch the curls,”_ Irene whispers loudly.

The girl pulls her hand back, and Sherlock does something elaborate with his hair, and Molly and Irene both heave a sigh of relief.  

They look back at John. His cheeks are red, his eyes narrowed to slits as he stares at Sherlock and the girl so hard that the force of his gaze might burn right through them.

“Christ, John.” Irene laughs, threading her hands through Molly’s. “Stop stewing over it and go _get him.”_

As John takes a half-step forward and then stops himself, Molly holds her hand out as if to push him forward from the other side of the room. “Get _on with it,_ you idiot,” she quietly urges.

 _“They’ve gotten their phones out,”_ Irene says, her voice nearly raising an octave as she bounces up and down anxiously.

“For fuck’s sake, John _,_ ” Molly squeals. “What are you waiting for? _”_ She’s shaking her head back and forth, laughing as Sherlock catches John’s eyes above the girl’s head.

Sherlock returns his phone to his pocket as he breaks away from her, giving John a long, long look before he turns towards the staircase.

“Oh, _finally,”_ Molly breathes. “Off he goes…”

The two watch as John shoves his way across the sitting room, all but running up the steps to catch up with Sherlock.

“And off John goes…” Irene adds with a laugh as the two disappear together into the bathroom. “Good lads.”

Molly smiles and lets out a sigh of contentment as she slowly pushes herself away from the wall and faces Irene.

“Remember what it was like, that new relationship feeling?” she asks a bit wistfully. “The constant butterflies? Not being able to keep your hands off each other, or be apart for a second without missing one another terribly?”

“Yes.” Irene reaches up, cradling Molly’s cheeks with both of her hands, and smiles at her with her beautiful red lips. “And the butterflies are still there for me, Miss Hooper.”

Molly beams at Irene before twining her fingers into the collar of her shirt and pulling her closer for a long, soft kiss.

 

***

 

Sherlock walks up the staircase, John’s footsteps heavy as he approaches, and he briefly questions his methods in getting John’s attention—but he doesn’t question them for long. Because when John grabs his hand and yanks him into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him, Sherlock instantly knows it was all _very, very good decision._

John crowds him back against the door, his breath hot against Sherlock’s mouth, his hands rough against Sherlock’s scalp as he grips his hair. _“Sherlock,”_ John groans, and Sherlock nearly moans out loud of the feel of John’s hot, compact body pressed completely up against his. “God, you could make a sport out of driving me mad, do you know that?”

Sherlock tries to answer him, but John swallows his words with a bruising kiss, and Sherlock’s words turn into an embarrassing whine in the back of his throat. He feels a line of fire lick up his spine as their mouths crash together again and again and again, lips and teeth and tongue.

“The things you do to me, Sherlock. Do you have any idea?” John breathes, breaking the kiss and holding Sherlock’s face steady between his two hands. He stares at Sherlock almost desperately, and Sherlock just wants to _kiss him._ “Watching another person flirt with you, touch you... do you know what that feels like?”

“Tell me what it feels like, John,” Sherlock says, and tries to kiss him again, but John lifts a finger and presses it to his lips, cupping Sherlock’s jaw with his other hand.

“It feels like I’m on fire, Sherlock,” John says, voice low and fervent and unbearably attractive. His pupils are enormous, and his irises are dark. “Burning up inside. Wanting so badly to kiss you, just to show her, to show the _world_ that I can. What do you think I should do about that, Sherlock?”

 _“Kiss me,”_ Sherlock rasps, pressing John in between his arms and kissing him wildly in every place that his lips can find; neck, chin, jaw, cheeks, forehead, eyelids, collarbones, the top of his head. “Kiss me, John, and then show them.”

John smiles at him, a slow smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth first and then spreads. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You want me to show them?” He leans in and aligns their mouths and Sherlock thinks that he might literally be shaking with anticipation as John speaks against his lips. “And how should I do that, exactly?”

As John traces the outside edge of Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his tongue, Sherlock _wants_ to answer him; but the only sound that comes out of him is a breathy moan.

Sighing, John pulls away, head dipping downwards as he places a finger against Sherlock’s chin to tip it back. Sherlock’s knees feel weak; he lets himself be positioned by John, resting the crown of his head against the door behind him. As John’s mouth hovers just a breath away from his neck, Sherlock drops his head fully to one side, giving John free reign of every bit of the cool, pale skin there.

The first hard press of John’s lips nearly sends Sherlock to the floor. If not for the arm that John has wound about his waist—elbow hooked around his rib cage, strong hand braced against his upper back—he probably wouldn’t be standing on his own two feet anymore. John kisses and nips at the right side of Sherlock’s neck eagerly, his lips hot, and Sherlock nearly cries out when he begins to lightly suck at the sensitive flesh there.

“John…” he whimpers as John alternates between nipping at the side of Sherlock’s neck with his teeth and soothing the spot with a steady, hot slide of his tongue. Sherlock’s heart is beating so hard that it _hurts,_ and he feels as though he is shaking apart in John’s arms.

“Gorgeous,” John gasps, scraping his teeth lightly along Sherlock’s skin and then sealing his lips against his neck. “God, Sherlock. Gorgeous.” His lips are like velvet as he presses them against Sherlock’s smooth neck, sucking and kissing and sucking—

“John, I—” Sherlock says breathlessly as John pulls back for air, running his fingers down John’s cheek and along his jaw as he stares at him with an unfathomable expression. John’s chest is rising and falling raggedly, and Sherlock growls his name once more, the sound ripped out of his throat on a gasp of air that burns.

Their mouths come together, and it is a slick, hot kiss, a feverish, frantic kiss, and Sherlock lets himself move against John unashamedly. He is drowning in sensation; he is drowning in John. John’s lips and hair and skin and hands and teeth and tongue, John’s breath, John’s needy, demanding sounds, muffled against Sherlock’s mouth but heard all the same.

John pulls at Sherlock’s shirt with uncoordinated insistence, yanking and tugging until he has the top three buttons undone and he can kiss Sherlock’s collar bones, his neck, the top of his shoulder. Sherlock’s fingers curl tightly against John’s skin at this feeling; he is panting, and the sound is loud in the small, dark room that they are in.

“You,” Sherlock rasps as John does something brilliant with his tongue at the crook of Sherlock’s jaw. He feels unwieldy and inarticulate, but the words inside of him need to be released to John Watson, need to be imprinted upon his mind as soon as possible. “You. Want you always, John.”

John moans, and pulls back to look Sherlock in the eyes, one hand going up to Sherlock’s temple where he traces little circles with his forefinger. Sherlock almost gasps at the look on John’s face; it’s unguarded and brilliant, shining and devoted and utterly, utterly wrecked.

 _I did that to you,_ Sherlock thinks. He rubs his nose in the soft hair above John’s ear and breathes him in, and John kisses the side of his neck.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John whispers, and Sherlock can hear his uneven breath just over his ear. His lips are searingly hot as they caress Sherlock’s cheeks; his hands are warm, warm, warm, and Sherlock burns at his touch. “I want to consume you.”

Sherlock smiles, and brings John’s hand close to him, pressing it against the bare skin over his heart. He hopes that John can feel the beats, there; this rhythm chanting _John, John, John._

Sherlock didn’t know that it was possible to want someone as much as he wants John in this moment. He doesn’t know what to do, how to act on this swelling, roaring feeling that starts in the pit of his stomach and spills out to fill the rest of him. Breathing raggedly—or maybe not breathing at all—he lifts the hand that he has set on his chest, bringing it to his lips and kissing the center of John’s palm with all of the feeling that’s in him.

“Then consume me.”

 

***

 

Sherlock Holmes knows many things.

He knows that John Watson’s eyes are the colour of the ocean; he knows that John’s laugh is the most radiant thing he’s ever witnessed; he knows that John’s smile is the best gift that he’s ever received.

But in the past twenty-four hours, he’s learned more than he ever thought he would.

He knows what John’s skin feels like beneath his fingertips; he knows how John’s lips feel pressed against his; he knows John’s taste; he knows what John’s name sounds like on his own tongue.

And still, Sherlock wants to know more.

As they breathe together in the quiet of John’s bedroom, Sherlock realises that he wants to know everything there is to know about this fascinating man; all that makes him so uniquely _John._ Every thought, every habit, every passion, his plans for the future, for the present, what he holds in his past.

Sherlock begins to drift into drowsy sleep, but he feels John’s hand stroke softly at the back of his neck; the spark it sends shooting through his body awakening him instantly. An involuntary noise escapes him; a long, happy thing, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and John’s fingers press down a bit harder in response. “Mmm, that feels good,” Sherlock mumbles. “Keep doing that.”

“How are you feeling?” John asks as he continues to knead the back of Sherlock’s neck and shoulders with firm, gentle fingers, and Sherlock sighs contentedly. He’s smiling so widely that his cheeks begin to hurt.

“Good,” Sherlock all but purrs. The word is more of a hum than anything, trailing off into another one of those blissful sounds that he can’t seem to stop making. “I’ve got a doctor with me,” he murmurs.

John laughs softly as his hand moves down Sherlock’s back to lightly trace lines down his spine, and Sherlock’s skin blooms into goosebumps. A shudder passes through him, sweet and full. “I’ve told you, Sherlock. I’m not a doctor yet.”

“Mmm, well, can you be _my_ doctor?” Sherlock asks breathily. “Because you’re doing a very good job taking care of me.” Sherlock brushes a hand against John’s hairline, and then kisses that same place, letting his lips linger. When he pulls away, John is smiling at him like he is the sun.

How is it possible to be lying next to the most beautiful human being in the world? What has possibly done to deserve this?

With John lying next to him, smile soft and warm, eyes kind and blue, Sherlock also realises: he wants John to know everything about _him._ He doesn’t quite know what makes him feel this way. He’s certainly never felt like this about another human being before: the need to share. The need to be known, wholly and completely. The need for _intimacy._

And he is so wrapped up in the feeling, in the sudden _need,_ that he doesn’t think the tiniest bit before uttering a single word: “Melittology.”

John gives him one of those quietly amused looks of confusion that makes Sherlock’s stomach flutter, half of his mouth drawing up into a slight smile. “The study of bees?”

“The professor I study with over the summers at UC Berkeley. There’s a graduate programme there, and I’d like to go.” Sherlock feels his heart fluttering swiftly within his ribs, thinking offhandedly that it probably mimics the sound of a bee’s wings, and tries not to let himself be distracted.

John blinks at him for a moment, and there is something in the look he gives that is so unbearably soft that Sherlock nearly has to close his eyes. John grins as Sherlock shifts involuntarily closer to him on the mattress, and kisses words against his forehead: “You want the study abroad scholarship so that you can move to California and study bees.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gives a solitary nod as John shifts away. “Well, help them. Did you know that there are seven different species of bees that are currently endangered? If we don’t figure out why that is, then it’s highly likely within the next twenty years that we—” He stops. Watches John’s expressive face, and marvels. “Mycroft would never approve of my going,” Sherlock says quietly. “...which is why I need the scholarship. My trust fund isn’t available for a few years, so I’d need to fund it on my own.”

“Sherlock.” John laughs and looks at him with an open affection that he doesn’t try to hide; Sherlock supposes he no longer needs to. “I had no idea. Not really sure what I assumed your plans were, but I definitely didn’t think it involved saving the bloody bees.” Squeezing his hand tenderly, he leans forward and kisses him softly once more. Sherlock smiles, even as John’s warm, soft lips move over his, the feeling of joy simmering in the hollow of his chest threatening to overflow and spill out between them.  

“Sherlock Holmes: beautiful, smart, _and_ selfless,” John murmurs against his lips.

Humming happily, Sherlock curls his body into John’s warmth, pressing his face into John’s shoulder and stretching one arm lazily across his stomach.

“John,” Sherlock says. He hesitates. “What are your… what do you want the scholarship for?”

There is another brief silence, and when John speaks, he squeezes Sherlock’s waist in a gentle acknowledgement. “Harvard. Medical School.”

Sherlock holds him tighter, and John makes a tiny, grateful noise. “I’ve dreamed about it since I was a child,” John continues, “But you can guess how easy it is for a kid with no money, one parent, and a sister who is in and out of rehab. So I was hoping, with the scholarship, I’d be able to… perhaps it’s a bit silly, though. I mean, there are plenty of excellent schools here in the UK.”

Sherlock wraps one hand in the soft cotton of John’s shirt and buries his face against John’s neck. He inhales deeply, savouring the wonderful, marvellous John-scent that exists there.

“Not silly at all,” he says. “You _deserve_ to go. You’re going to make an excellent doctor, John.”

John laughs a little bit, and he hugs Sherlock to him fiercely. “You’re going to make an excellent bee-saver, Sherlock.”

John’s words make Sherlock swallow against the sudden tightness in his throat—the wall of joy pushing upwards, mixed with something heavier that makes him want to wrap himself up in John Watson and never, ever, ever let him go. He feels almost wildly unguarded and sentimental, and he buries his face into John’s chest to keep himself from saying too much.

“I’ll help the people, you’ll help the _Hylaeus anthracites,_ _”_ John murmurs sleepily. Sherlock can feel the rumble of John’s words through his chest, the vibration comforting against his cheek. “Together, we’ll make the world a better place.”

Sherlock’s eyes fall closed, heavy from the alcohol and contentedness. He inhales and exhales so that his breathing is perfectly aligned with John’s, just so that he can feel closer to him. The cotton of John’s shirt is soft and warm against his strong chest, and when Sherlock drifts off to sleep, his dreams are filled with bees and dinner by candlelight and the softness of John’s lips.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s body jumps awake at the feeling of something vibrating in the pocket of his trousers. He blinks his eyes open, wincing at the weak wash of light that drifts in through the curtained window, and wonders why he feels so deliciously warm and yet so bloody awful at the same time.

He opens his eyes all the way, and comes up face-to-face with a sleeping John.

They are wrapped around each other tightly, legs tangled in between each other’s; John has one arm draped across Sherlock’s narrow waist, the other pillowing his neck. Both of Sherlock’s hands are fisted loosely in the front of John’s shirt, his head resting on John’s pillow.

Sighing, Sherlock reaches into his pocket and extracts his still-buzzing phone, cradling it in the bit of space between him and John and squinting at the text. The backlight of the screen makes his temples throb.

 

_Good morning, Baby Brother. -MH_

(God. Why?)

_Mycroft. -SH_

_It’s seven in the morning and I’ve got a hangover. What do you want? -SH_

_How very elegant. -MH_

 

Sherlock’s head is pounding, and he’s got a very warm and very sleepy John holding him, so he decides to ignore Mycroft and go back to sleep. But his phone buzzes again.

 

_I received an e-mail from Harvard Medical School. -MH_

_They’re requesting a letter of recommendation for John Hamish Watson. -MH_

 

Shit. Sherlock just can’t seem to get his horrible brother to stop poking his long nose into his life. Sighing again—louder this time, although not loud enough to wake John, of course—Sherlock thinks of the blandest answer he can.

 

_How does that concern me? -SH_

_I’m the Dean of Students. I’ve got eyes and ears all over campus, and word spreads quickly. -MH_

_I know more than you think about your interpersonal relationships. -MH_

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

_Please get to the point, Mycroft. -SH_

_I’ve known the head of medicine at Harvard for a long time. I assure you she will listen to what I have to say, and I would love to be able to help ensure John’s acceptance. -MH_

_Oh. -SH_

_There’s only one small thing. -MH_

 

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate.

 

_Alright. Tell me what needs to happen, then. -SH_

_First, tell me: where do you see yourself fitting into this long-term plan of John’s? -MH_

 

Curling in tighter upon himself, Sherlock feels his heart drop. He’s sick to his stomach, suddenly.

 

_I… hadn’t really thought of that, to be honest. -SH_

_The way I see it, there are really only two options: John stays with you and doesn’t go to Harvard, or he leaves you behind to deal with a broken heart. -MH_

_Are you really going to leave that difficult choice up to him? -MH_

 

Sherlock despises Mycroft in this moment, but he does, in fact, have a point.

Does Sherlock really think he’s going to just… ask John to stay? Does he think John would give up his dream to stay with him? God, he hopes not.

Perhaps Sherlock had… misjudged the situation. Gotten in too deep, too quickly, without considering all of the data.

 

_What are you suggesting I do? -SH_

_Love is never an advantage, Baby Brother. -MH_

_If you want him to go to Harvard, I need to know that it will not have a negative effect on you. -MH_

 

Sherlock’s chest feels tight, like his ribs are collapsing down onto his lungs. He doesn’t want to think about how this is going to hurt him later. He can’t. He _won’t._

Because it doesn’t really matter. _John_ is what matters.

 

_Alright. -SH_

_Can you promise me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that John will be accepted into Harvard Medical School? -SH_

_I obviously can’t tell you what to do with your personal life, but I guarantee that my recommendation will get him accepted. -MH_

 

Sherlock lifts his gaze from the screen, taking in the sight of John next to him. He’s sound asleep still, his lips curved softly in a tiny smile. His dark blond hair is tufted and messy with sleep, and he breathes in deep, even breaths.

And there isn’t any choice, is there?

John must get into Harvard; that’s his dream, and Sherlock will do anything—anything—to help him.

Sherlock knows what he has to do.

 

_Write the recommendation for him, Mycroft. -SH_

_I will. -MH_

_I know this is difficult, Baby Brother. -MH_

_I wish it weren’t. -MH_

_But you’re making the right decision. For the both of you. -MH_

 

Sherlock doesn’t know if he agrees; all he knows is that the smile he’s been wearing nonstop for the past few days is now, as if almost instantaneously, gone.

 

_Piss off, Mycroft. -SH_

 

Sherlock blinks and stares at his phone for a moment, his heart dropping, a knot tightening in the pit of his stomach.

No wonder Mycroft has always warned him against sentimental attachments. The feeling he has in this moment is truly the worst thing he’s ever felt.

Feeling as though he’s moving in slow motion, he sets his phone down on the bedside table and lays himself back down to face a sleeping John. He watches John’s chest rise and fall with steady, rhythmic breaths. He could watch him simply breathe for hours and hours.

Sherlock thinks he might love him.

And it hurts. More than anything.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, his voice so quiet that he can barely even hear himself. “I know that, perhaps, you think that I am a brilliant person.” He pillows his cheek on his folded hands, and stares at the gentle spread of John’s blond lashes against his cheeks. “But please, never overlook your _own_ brilliance. You’re going to make a wonderful doctor one day. And I could never bear to think I might be doing anything to hinder that.”

He stops for a moment and takes a deep breath, fighting the urge to touch John. He doesn’t want to wake him up. He _can’t._ If John wakes up, Sherlock will never leave.

Sherlock can’t help it. There is a pressure in his throat that feels like a wave of sobs, the backs of his eyes burning, and he can’t go without touching John just one more time.

He sits up and then leans in with as little jostling as he can, kissing the top of John’s warm, precious head, taking another few seconds to stare at the beautiful, wonderful, intelligent man before him.

“Goodbye, Doctor,” he whispers; and as John quietly sleeps, Sherlock slips out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though our boys may be facing some drama now, don’t worry, friends. We promise an ultimately happy ending. ❤️


	9. A Fool and His Common Sense Are Soon Parted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sherlock.” John’s face breaks into a smile that is as bright and as warm as the morning sunrise, spreading his arms and stepping forward, and Sherlock falls, falls into him, falls against him, folds himself helplessly against John’s chest._
> 
> _He takes handfuls John’s jumper, tugging him closer, burying his nose in the smooth, fragrant place right under John’s left ear—two hours and he hadn’t breathed the entire time—and now Sherlock breathes, breathes John in, because now, he really doesn’t know when he’s going to be able to breathe again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is definitely the most emotional one yet. Thank you for waiting for this update. We hope the wait was worth it. ❤️
> 
> Thanks to Jess, for your help with the French translations!
> 
> And thank you, again, to [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/), [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittiehill/), and [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/) for your contributions and feedback ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> **We got some awesome fanart by Sausagebird for this chapter!!!! Click[here](http://oi63.tinypic.com/21d91j.jpg) to see it! (Spoilers)**

* * *

Sherlock had never, in his entire life, considered himself to be a fool.

But as he leaves John’s place (leaves _John)_ —he realises, perhaps, he’d been quite wrong all along.

He is _absolutely_ a fool, and possibly the biggest fool on the planet, and that much, he’s got figured out. What he’s yet to figure out is whether he’s a bigger fool for leaving, or if he’d have been a bigger fool to have stayed.

But he can’t possibly come to such an enormous conclusion with his head spinning the way it currently is, a carousel of emotions and questions, deep and scary and unfamiliar and so out of control and _real._

Simply judging by his current state of mind, he _knows_ he’s got to be doing the right thing—leaving John to be free of the ups and downs and throes of sentimental attachments. Leaving him so that he can focus on what really matters (Harvard, studies, doctor, _saving lives)._

Sherlock closes his eyes, briefly allowing himself to think about John. John, kissing him with dry, soft lips. John, lying in bed next to him, holding him tighter than he’s ever been held by anyone, even as they’d slept. John, earnestly sharing his dreams and future plans, smiling so brightly that the entire room had glowed.

Sherlock knows, whatever pain he feels now, whatever pain either of them might feel, it will pass, and it will be worth it in the long run. But as he quickly brushes the moisture out of the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand, he rues the fact that logic and reason don’t seem to make this any easier.

If he can’t depend on logic and reason to solve something, what on earth has he got left? 

And how does this all even work, anyway? This whole nonsense of caring for another human in such a manner that your interests and preoccupations are no longer your own? Caring so much that you feel as though you’d throw yourself into a den of fierce, hungry lions, if it meant that person could somehow be better off, and you’d maybe even smile while doing so?

How can THAT possibly be a good thing?

And how is it that Sherlock, who had wanted John more than anything for so infuriatingly long—even longer than he’d himself realised—could willingly give him back when he’d only just gotten him?

Love. That’s how.

It’s just like Mycroft had always said—love dulls the senses and turns us into unrelenting slaves to attachment. And knowing this, Sherlock thinks, knowing how ridiculous and impulsive and unreasonable he’s currently acting—walking away from John although everything inside is screaming for him _not to_ —he’s got to agree with Mycroft after all.

Love _is_ rather inconvenient, isn’t it?

However.

Few things are actually as inconvenient, at this moment, as Irene’s sudden cold, painful grip on his arm as he walks across the garden, pulling him back into the opposite direction he’s trying to go.

Or the fact that she and Molly seem to have appeared out of nowhere, all but bombarding him, silently dragging him from his reverie and across the dewy grass against his will.

Yes, that is rather inconvenient, as well.

_“Sherlock Holmes,”_ Irene finally utters with a strained grin and a chiding voice. “Why, exactly,  are you sneaking away from Doctor McDreamy’s house at seven in the morning?”

“I—” Sherlock begins. There is a threatening calmness in her tone that Sherlock can’t back down from. Good god, the woman can be horrifying at times.

“John knows you’re leaving, right?” Molly chimes in apprehensively, but she doesn’t give him a chance to answer before her arm is around his arm, locking their elbows together. Presumably, she’s doing this to keep him from doing what he’d really like to do right now (run, run, run).

“Where on Earth did you two _come_ from?” Sherlock barks, annoyed, because evading their questions and changing the subject suddenly seems to be a novel approach.

“We slept over on John’s sofa.” Irene tightens her grip, her smile becoming a thin, pursed line across her face. “Wanted to make sure you were alright—you drank quite a bit last night. We saw you sneaking out just now, and you seemed to be in a hurry, and upset, and—”

“We couldn’t mind our own business,” Molly concludes. “We needed to make sure everything was okay with you—with you two. Sorry.”

“Not really sorry,” Irene offers.

“No, not really,” Molly concedes with a shrug.

Sherlock stares at both of them blankly, unable to form words, but that’s all the answer they need. Oh, how he despises it when people _know_ him and _get_ him, and how he despises that he’s become so utterly _predictable._

“Right.” Irene shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. “So you had an argument, then?”

Sherlock lowers his eyes, his chest tightening. “No.”

“Okay.” Irene breathes steadily. “Then what exactly  are you trying to escape from?”

Sherlock grimaces a bit, his face becoming small, sad. He looks over at Molly, who is looking back at him, pitying and slightly curious, and he hopes she might urge Irene to show some mercy on him with this inquisition.

She doesn’t.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, considering his words carefully, because he’s consciously creating a work of pure fiction. “I just wanted to go out for a walk and see the sunrise, because the… Mars is in retrograde, er—”

“Sherlock,” Irene snaps at him, her patience wearing thin, digging her fingers into his arm even further. She hauls Sherlock around to face her, foot tapping impatiently on the sidewalk. “You have many talents, Love, but lying is decidedly not one of them _._ _Especially_ not lying about space.”

“I’m just—” Sherlock croaks weakly, not really surprised at how difficult it seems to make a sound.

“You can talk to us about it,” Molly urges in her tiny, encouraging voice. “Whatever it is.” She smiles at him, but it’s a sad smile, which surprisingly stings more than Irene’s persistent anger.

“I’m not… I don’t.” Sherlock stops, sighs deeply. Feels disturbingly tragic, disturbingly misunderstood. “I... I don’t know what to say,” he concludes.

“In that case,” Irene says matter-of-factly, “you and I are going to go for coffee, and when you’re ready, you’re going to tell me every detail, and I am going to offer you my unsolicited advice. And after that, everything is going to be _fine.”_

Sherlock gazes back at her, silently stunned. Molly is staring at her with heart-eyes, and Sherlock feels a little bit like gagging at the sight of it.

“I’ll stay back and distract John in the meantime,” Molly offers. “As soon as he wakes up, that is.”

“Thanks, Darling,” Irene says, and Sherlock can feel the grip on his arm loosen a bit as her face softens. “Hopefully we won’t be too terribly long.”

“No worries,” Molly reassures her. “I’ve become quite adept to helping John calm down, especially _these_ days,” she says, pointedly eyeing Sherlock.

He glares at her. 

“Perfect,” Irene says, blowing Molly a kiss, and Sherlock doesn’t even bother to resist as she hauls him away to the café down the street.

 

***

 

As John awakens, his eyes not yet even open, he can already feel himself smiling. He wonders groggily if that smile had been on his face since last night, when he’d drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

The memories come flooding back to him, and his heart swells so much that he thinks it could leap right out of his chest: the softness of Sherlock’s hair beneath his fingers, the taste of his mouth against John’s own. The way Sherlock’s body had felt, pressed against his, as they’d lain together in John’s bed.

The sun peeks into the room, casting a beam of light across his face. Though the room is chilly, John’s smile turns into something warmer. John curls up around the empty space beside him, his eyes fluttering open as he realises that the feeling of Sherlock’s body isn’t there, though it ought to be.

Sherlock’s awake already, then. The restless git.

Still smiling, John squints against the sunlight that shines in through the crack in his blinds, allowing time for his eyes to adjust. As he does, he notices the bedsheets next to him—they are smooth and orderly, as if Sherlock had made sure to fix them. They are also cool to the touch.

How long has Sherlock been awake?

And that’s when it occurs to John, as the room comes into focus around him, that Sherlock’s coat, which had been draped over his desk the night before, isn’t there.

John sits up in his bed, still slightly confused and dizzy in his half-awake state. He tries to recall  whether Sherlock had said goodbye. He can’t remember. All he _can_ remember is that Sherlock had seemed _wonderful_ last night. Happy. Right up until he had fallen asleep, curled up against John with a smile on his perfect mouth.

“Sherlock?” John finally calls out, his voice strained and gravelly from sleep.

John tries not to let worry seep in as he pushes his bedsheets away. Climbs out of his bed, walks to his bedroom door and opens it. Tries to regulate his heartbeat. Walks steadily and purposefully out of his bedroom and into the sitting room, tries to control the pace of his footsteps, but he’s nearly running, and he’s—

“Hey, Mate!” A cheerful voice; so cheerful, it’s almost shrill.

John swallows. It’s Molly. “Molls? What are you—?”

Molly gazes back at him from the sofa, doe-eyed and smiling. “How ya feeling?”

John still feels a bit dizzy, still muzzy with sleep, and he rubs at his eyes to make sure he’s seeing correctly. “Fine. Where’s Sh—?”

“Sherlock and Irene ran out to get breakfast,” Molly says sweetly, but her expression is a tiny bit more stiff than usual. John tries to ignore it. “They didn’t want to wake you. Isn’t that thoughtful?” 

John gapes back at her, still bewildered. “Y-yeah,” he stammers, attempting to slow down the wild thumping of his heart. “Yeah,” he repeats. “Very thoughtful, indeed.”

Of course, John thinks. Sherlock. Bringing him breakfast again: good.

Jumping to conclusions without evidence: bad.

Molly nods, continuing to smile brightly, as if it were impossible and unthinkable for her to _not_ be smiling at the moment. “I boiled some water,” she chirps. “Go make yourself a cuppa, then come back here so we can watch _Sixteen Candles.”_

John’s face grows warm with embarrassment, and he rolls his eyes, but he isn’t annoyed. Recently, he’d drunkenly confessed to Molly his secret penchant for John Hughes films, so he doesn’t even want to say no.

“Alright,” he agrees. “But you’d better load up some clever-looking documentary to switch over to the second a single soul walks back through that door.”

“Already done,” Molly says with a knowing wink. “African Savannah.”

Of course she’d known to do that. John smiles, but— “Are there any documentaries on bees?” he asks without a second thought.

Molly lifts an eyebrow at him out of slight curiosity, as if she’s unsure of his reason for asking, but John’s pretty sure she’s already figured _that_ out, too. “I can look for one while you get your tea,” she says. “I’m sure there’s got to be something.”

“Thanks,” John utters, his face growing flushed. “I just. There’s a class project about the, um, pollination of the—”

Molly gazes back at him silently as he fumbles.

“Right.” John lowers his head, and he thinks he might _actually_ be twiddling his thumbs. “Be right back with my tea, then,” he says, and he turns to walk to the kitchen.

_Smooth,_ he thinks to himself. _Real smooth._ But the smile on his face grows wider, and he realises he can’t force himself to care too much about appearing completely smitten, because, well—that’s apparently what he’s become. A 1980s rom-com-watching, thumb-twiddling, smiling-in-the-morning, besotted fool.

As he strolls into the kitchen for tea, he can’t resist the urge to take his phone from his pocket and send a text message to Sherlock. He should thank him for his thoughtfulness, anyway.

 

_You silly man. You don’t have to bring me breakfast every day, you know._

_But thank you._

_I’d really like to know what it’s like to wake up next to you, though :)_

_Got any objections to helping me find out tomorrow?_

 

A smile spreads across John’s face as he returns his phone to his pocket and reaches into the cupboard for a mug. 

He sort of enjoys being this brand of fool, after all.

 

***

 

If there’s one thing Irene Adler is very good at, it’s knowing what people like.

That’s why she’s amazing as a Public Relations major, and that’s also why she’s probably going to become a billionaire before turning thirty.  

Sherlock knows this about her, and he also knows that she’s almost _always_ right—so when she won’t stop talking to him about how much he and John _like_ one another, it’s really, _extremely_ difficult for him not to listen.

And it’s really, _extremely_ difficult for him to stick to his guns on this whole decision, but he knows he must. Stick. To his guns. Even if his guns aren’t feeling particularly sticky at the moment.

She watches him with piercing eyes as she gracefully sips her tea. “You and John have something really special together,” she says, again, for probably the twelfth time in an hour.

Sherlock is listening, but trying not to—ripping his paper napkin into tiny shreds. They flutter down onto the tabletop beneath his hands, looking like snow against the dark wood. It’s a welcome distraction.

“I know,” he says finally with a deep, deep sigh. “But as I’ve repeatedly expressed—it’s not what we’ve got _now_ that is currently of concern to me.”

Irene makes a valiant attempt to keep from rolling her eyes, but she obviously doesn’t try hard enough. “John’s future,” she says robotically. “Blah, blah, blah.” She leans in across the table and lowers her voice, intense and persuasive. “His future is not left to be determined by you, or your meddling cow of a brother, you know.”

She’s said that probably a dozen times, too. Sherlock laughs each time she says the cow thing, even through his fog of melancholy. 

“And besides,” she continues. “I’m not actually convinced you’ve fully thought this whole thing through.”

“I’ve considered everything,” Sherlock argues. “All I ever _do_ is think, Irene. You don’t believe I thought about this _at length?”_ He realises that the napkin between his long fingers is now almost completely gone, just a scrap of thin, tearing paper. He drops it on the tabletop.

“I believe that you lack confidence in situations like these, and that you’re afraid of your brother, and that you’re also blinded by your feelings for John.” Irene leans back in her seat, raising an eyebrow. “Furthermore, I believe you made a life-altering decision at seven in the morning while nursing a hangover, and _that_ is definitely not the time to be making such decisions.”

Sherlock frowns unhappily. “I’m perfectly confident,” he briskly says. “And I’m not blind, and I’m… I am most _definitely_ not afraid of my brother.” Sherlock can feel his tone growing higher, his words spilling out faster and faster, as he tries his best to come to his own defence.

He’s doesn’t think it’s working. Irene stares at him for a moment, her lips pressed in a flat line. She says nothing. Sherlock hates it, but refuses to squirm.

“I don’t care about _any_ of those things,” Sherlock insists. “I only care that John gets the future he wants _.”_

“So you keep saying,” Irene says, shaking her head at him. “But Sherlock, how can you be so sure he doesn’t want you _in_ that future?”

Sherlock swallows.

Because _that,_ in a nutshell, is exactly what he is most afraid of. John Watson. Wanting him. In his future.

Sherlock inhales, exhales. Again. Just to prove that he still can.

“That won’t work,” he responds, an irritability in his voice that he hadn’t expected. “We’re planning to go to opposite ends of a foreign country, after all.”

He doesn’t _feel_ irritated. He feels… bone-deep sadness, but he’s trying with all of his might to keep that feeling buried in his bones.  

“The time will soon come that we’ve got to say goodbye,” he continues. “We’ll be left with the difficult decision of whether to carry on, and there’s no way that is going end well.” He’s now squeezing his mug so hard that his knuckles have turned white. “If I can avoid that happening, and at the same time, ensure John makes it into Harvard, why _wouldn’t_ I take that opportunity?” 

Irene stares down at the table, and then back at him, and reaches out across to tear his hand away from the mug—it’s only then that he notices the firmness of his grip.

“Sherlock,” she says, looking into his eyes, and she softens a little bit. “John _cares_ for you. Did you ever think that maybe if he thought of all this, he’d continue to want you _anyway?”_

Sherlock doesn’t think these things.

“Believe me,” Irene says, reaching her other hand across the table and wrapping it around his. “The best thing you can do in this situation is to be honest with John. Go talk to him. Don’t you think he deserves that, at the very least?”

Sherlock’s eyes clench shut, and he can feel an impending wave of frustration threatening to shake his entire body. “I _can’t_ talk to him, Irene,” he says a bit desperately. “If I tell him, he’ll… he’ll never let me do what I’m doing. He’d never understand.”

Irene squeezes his hand, and then lets go, leaving it open and cold on the table. “I can’t say I understand, either.”

Sherlock sighs. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps he should, at least, go back to John’s place, just to let him know what’s going on. 

Perhaps he should at least say goodbye.

But if he goes back to John’s place now, Mycroft will somehow _know,_ and he’ll withdraw the offer to write the letter, and… nope. He can’t. He.

Can he?

Just then, Sherlock’s phone vibrates, and then it vibrates again, and his heart leaps and squeezes tightly all at once.

Four messages. From John.

 

_You silly man. You don’t have to bring me breakfast every day, you know._

_But thank you._

_I’d really like to know what it’s like to wake up next to you, though :)_

_Got any objections to helping me find out tomorrow?_

 

God. This wonderful human. And Sherlock just... left him? Without a goodbye? Left him in the dark, not even knowing why? 

Sherlock is, indeed, the greatest fool on the planet.

“Let’s go back to his place,” Sherlock agrees finally. “I should at least try to explain everything to him before...” He makes sure to sound as reluctant as possible, if only to convince himself that he’s not brimming with excitement at the chance to see John again.

Because he’s not returning for exciting reasons.

“Of course,” Irene says, her face brightening. She smiles at him. “But, erm, one more thing—”

Sherlock pauses as he stands at his chair, heart beating faster at her words. Something _else?_ “What’s that?” he asks warily.

“We agreed to pick up breakfast.”

“Oh,” Sherlock laughs, more a release of tension than real amusement. He feels his shoulders fall down from where they’ve been residing up around his ears.

Sherlock and Irene make their way to the counter, and Sherlock orders—he’d spent so much time studying John, trying to find out ways to make him smile, he already knows exactly what kind of coffee John will want, and what kind of scone he likes with that coffee, and... he tries to keep the smile off of his face as he thinks about it. “Light roast, one cream, one sugar,” he says with a forced nonchalance. “And a blueberry scone.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a twenty pound note, and hands it to Irene before walking out the door for a cigarette or three.

 

***

 

**[Texts: Irene and Molly]**

 

_Hello, Darling._

_How’s John?_

 

_He’s fine. Pretty sure he’s beginning to suspect something is off, though._

_How’s Sherlock? Have we learned what the problem is?_

 

_Meddling brother. Promised to write a letter of recommendation for John if Sherlock would agree to stop seeing him. Perfect catalyst for Sherlock’s tendency to be infuriatingly selfless while also running away from sentimental attachments._

 

”Oh, no,” Molly whispers, her hand flying over her mouth as she reads Irene’s words, and she nearly drops her phone. She can feel secondhand anger seething in her gut. She’d heard stories from Irene about the dean’s somewhat grey morals, but _this—_

John glances up from the telly. “Everything okay?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“Erm. Yeah. Just.” Molly smiles at him cheerfully, or at least she tries. It’s difficult when you want to throw your phone across the room or into the head of a certain Dean of Students. “I, er, just saw a picture of a friend of mine... wearing a really horrible dress. The, erm, patterns, mixed stripes with polka dots, and a really orangey-yellow colour, it’s just, _bleh.”_

She needs to stop talking.

John eyes her suspiciously, one eyebrow remaining lifted as he sits forward on the sofa. “What’s going on, Molls?” he asks. “Is everything okay with Sherlock?”

Molly shifts uncomfortably. Unfortunately, tortuously, she can’t think of any more horrific features for her imaginary ugly dress. Bollocks. Thankfully, though, her phone lights up and vibrates again, and she jumps.

“Hang on,” she says, thankful for the interruption that relieves her of having to answer.

 

_We’re both headed back now with breakfast. Sherlock’s ready to talk to John. See you in a few minutes._

 

_Oh, thank god. Hurry, please. I’m crashing and burning here._

 

Molly looks up again from the screen of her mobile to find John staring back at her expectantly, his blue eyes wide.

“They’re on their way back now,” Molly says with a big smile. Damn. Not only is she a bad liar—she’s also really, really bad at keeping her emotions in check in situations like these. Her face always gives her away.

“When are you going to tell me the truth, Molls?” John asks earnestly. There’s a hint of fear in his tone, and it breaks her heart. “Why did Sherlock leave this morning?”

Molly sighs, dropping her arms into her lap.

 

***

 

Sherlock thought he had prepared himself mentally for how difficult it would be to return to John’s flat.

He’d known, the instant he’d made the decision to come back, that it would be hard to walk up that staircase for what would likely be the last time.

Sherlock had come here to tell him.

And he’d known he’d want to run, but he’d thought he’d be wanting to run back down the stairs, and away, as far as he could go, and as fast as he possibly could. 

What Sherlock hadn’t prepared himself for was actually wanting to run back _into_ John’s arms. He hadn’t been prepared for the immediate, powerful John-scent that would bombard him the moment he stepped into the stairwell. He hadn’t been prepared for the giant lump in his throat, or the prickling, burning feeling in the back of his eyes.

Perhaps he should have been more prepared. 

Sherlock’s legs shake. He sighs deeply, inhaling the mixture of the heavy, heady John-scent, along with the scent of the drinks in his hand. Irene’s palm comes to settle lightly and comfortingly onto the small of his back, gently guiding him forward, letting him know that he’s not alone.

He reminds himself of his reason for coming back; to inform John of his decision to leave, to explain himself as best he can, and to give John the goodbye he deserves. 

The door to John’s flat swings open before they have a chance to knock. Molly greets them, overwhelming relief on her face.

“Hey,” she says, and then she probably says something else, but Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to her, because she’s not John. And John’s not with her at the door, and Sherlock had come here to tell him.

Sherlock steps swiftly through the threshold, mindlessly shoving the tray of hot drinks into Molly’s hands, because he’d also not been prepared for how much he _needs. To see. John. Right now._  

Two hours. Two short hours it had been since he’d left John’s flat. And he now realises he hadn’t breathed the entire time. He’s not sure he can actually breathe until he sees John again.

Sherlock can vaguely hear Molly and Irene chattering behind him, shuffling off into the kitchen. But he doesn’t pay them any mind, because _where is John?_ Sherlock is in _John’s flat,_ he’d come all the way back here, and he had come here to tell him, and he needs to see John—

At the sound of footsteps entering the room, Sherlock whirls around, tripping a bit on his own feet, and finally releases a gust of air he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

_John._

“Sherlock.” John’s face breaks into a smile that is as bright and as warm as the morning sunrise, spreading his arms and stepping forward, and Sherlock falls, falls into him, falls against him, folds himself helplessly against John’s chest.

He takes handfuls John’s jumper, tugging him closer, burying his nose in the smooth, fragrant place right under John’s left ear— _two hours and he hadn’t breathed the entire time—_ and now Sherlock breathes, breathes John in, because now, he really doesn’t know when he’s going to be able to breathe again.

That thought makes Sherlock feel like he’s shrinking even smaller in John’s arms. So he clings tighter, not thinking about the consequences, only thinking about the way John’s heart is beating against his chest.

“Hey,” John finally whispers as he folds his arms around Sherlock, pulling him in and kissing the side of his head. “I missed you.”

John laughs a bit, and it’s probably meant to be cheerful, but there’s a ruefulness in his tone that doesn’t belong. “I suppose that’s rather silly,” he continues. “You’d only been gone a couple of hours, but I guess I just...” He trails off, as if trying to decide if he wants to go on.

Sherlock kisses the underside of John’s jaw to let him know that he can. Just once. No harm. Only because Sherlock might not ever get to kiss him there again. 

“I guess it’s because...” There’s a smile in John’s voice that almost makes Sherlock forget why he’s there. And then John says, “I’m pretty fond of you, you know,” and Sherlock forgets everything else, too.

_Fond._ The word seems so inadequate, doesn’t it? Especially now. It falls so flat, it lacks all of the meaning that it should be full of.  They’re beyond _fond,_ Sherlock and John. _Fond_ doesn’t feel like this. _Fond_ doesn’t hollow Sherlock out only to fill him up again, doesn’t push against the inside of his skin until he thinks he’ll crack.

John clutches tightly at Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock kisses his earlobe lightly, reflexively, and he laughs, oddly, again. It doesn’t sound like John is amused.

Sherlock buries his forehead in John’s shoulder and kisses it, and _he needs to stop, he can’t keep holding John, can’t keep kissing him like this, he had come here to tell him, he can’t—_

“Love. Look at me, will you?” John mumbles into his neck.

Sherlock does.

Because, alarmingly, apparently, automatically, Sherlock would do _anything_ for John; which is why he goes and does this _ridiculous thing,_ meeting John’s eyes.

They’re round, deep, and bluer than the Caribbean Sea, and Sherlock now remembers why he’d been so afraid of drowning in the first place.

John leans in, reaching up to cradle Sherlock’s cheek in one hand, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s features. Sherlock feels acutely exposed, bare, and vulnerable in their wake.

“I was... sort of worried that maybe you weren’t... okay,” John says. He rubs the thin skin right under Sherlock’s left eye with his thumb. Gentle, gentle, gentle, and then— “Sherlock. _Are_ you okay?”

No. No. No. No. 

Sherlock notices a tension across John’s forehead, even though he is smiling. His fingers spasm against Sherlock’s cheek, even though his hands are steady. It’s just a tiny movement. Barely noticeable, except to Sherlock, because he notices, and now he wants to ask John if he is okay, too.  

John’s gaze flicks over Sherlock’s face lightning-fast as he seems to fight for breath. He tips his head forward until their foreheads meet, and they rest together with a firm pressure that feels good. Feels safe.

_John._  

Sherlock had come here to tell him.

“J—” Sherlock tries to say, but the word dies in his throat.

John slides one hand from Sherlock’s waist to his lower back, and pulls him closer, until their hips align. And then, they’re kissing, their lips pressed together more quickly than Sherlock’s brain can catch up with. A brief, firm, still meeting of mouths, dry and warm. There’s a promise—a promise of more, hanging in the air, but that promise feels empty, and it hurts Sherlock to his core.

Does John already know?

John sighs against Sherlock’s mouth, and slides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, and leans forward to meet Sherlock’s lips again. This time, it _hurts._ Sherlock knows that there is no promise between them like the one John is trying to make, only—

“John…” Sherlock breathes deeply for a moment as he pulls his mouth away, because those fingers are still sliding over his scalp, and it’s distracting. ”There’s... something I came here to tell you.” 

“Oh,” John whispers against Sherlock’s mouth, their foreheads still pressed together. “Okay. Of course. You can tell me anything.”

Sherlock takes another breath, and tries to let his words out. The breath gets lodged in his throat; it rattles in his chest, turns heavy and useless. He stares at John’s mouth. Silent.

Sherlock thinks, in this moment, that there is no way he can ever do this, because all he wants is to hold John, pull him in until they meld together, so that neither one ever has to be without the other. All he wants to do is kiss John— _his_ John—beautiful, perfect, kind, intelligent John—without an empty promise hanging over their heads. 

Sherlock had come here to tell him.

“John.” Sherlock puts a hand on John’s chest, a half-hearted attempt at keeping distance between them. He can feel John’s heartbeat beneath his palm, and it’s erratic. Racing. Like Sherlock’s.

John stares at him, lips parted.

“I can’t—” Sherlock swallows. He hates this. He hates himself for letting this happen. For falling for John, though he’d tried so hard not to. For ignoring the obvious negative consequences, for wanting John _so badly,_ but for pitifully wanting to ensure John’s happiness _more._

John’s eyes shut tightly and he shakes his head roughly, both hands coming up to cradle Sherlock’s cheeks again. “Oh, Sherlock,” he rasps, voice breaking in the middle of the word, and the way he says this, the look on his face, the sound of his voice—he is just as sad and confused and desperate as Sherlock feels himself, and Sherlock can’t bear to look at it.

So he closes his own eyes, and he surges towards John, locking their mouths together once more—he couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried.

John knows.

Sherlock can taste it on his lips, he can feel it in the way John cups his face in his infinitely tender hands, as if it’s the last time he’ll ever be allowed to. His fingers are hot like brands on Sherlock’s skin as he nudges Sherlock’s head this way and that—their breathing so loud in the deafening silence of the room.

Sherlock had come here to tell him.

Their lips drag against each other as Sherlock pulls away again—John lets him move, but not far; his breath dances across Sherlock’s lips, hot and tantalising, and Sherlock wants to keep tasting it, wants to keep tasting John, but—

_“John,”_ Sherlock manages once more, _somehow._

The words, they sting, and he hasn’t even said them yet, but he knows he’s got to do something to dull the pain if he’s going to get the words out, so he does what he can to make the words feel less real— 

Deep inhalation.

“J’ai besoin que tu saches,” Sherlock whispers. “Tu mérites de tout avoir. Tout ce que tu as toujours voulu.”

_I need you to know—you deserve to have everything. Everything you’ve ever wanted._

John kisses Sherlock again, softly. “C’est ce que j’ai en ce moment—Je te veux, Sherlock. Je te veux.”

_Right now, I do—I want you, Sherlock. I want you._

John’s hand, still on Sherlock’s cheek, slides to weave back into his hair. His fingernails drag lightly along Sherlock’s scalp, sending an eruption of goosebumps down his spine.

Sherlock swallows tightly, eyes fluttering closed as John tilts his head down and kisses him on the forehead, his lips lingering, heart pounding thunderously beneath Sherlock’s hand.

“Pas assez,” Sherlock exhales.

_Not enough._

“Oui.” John pulls away. Sherlock opens his eyes, and their gazes meet, and Sherlock wants to cry at the raw, real expression that John is wearing. “Tu l’es.”

_Yes. You are._

John moves down again, tenderly kissing Sherlock’s right eyebrow, kissing his cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth. The hinge of Sherlock’s jaw, kisses his neck, his warm breath clouding at the spot where evidence of last night’s activities has formed, dark and coloured and raised.

_“Oh,”_ John breathes, and he pauses before kissing that spot so gently, brushing his velveteen lips so gently that Sherlock’s chest aches. So softly that Sherlock can barely feel it, but that won’t do right now, because Sherlock wants to _feel him,_ wants to _feel_ John pressing his wet, open mouth to his neck, and he pulls John closer, until he is able to feel his lips sealed against his tender, sensitive skin. Sherlock’s head falls back on his neck, exposing himself to John to have whatever John wants of him, to take it, all of it, all of _him._

Sherlock had no idea that someone could have _this_ with another person, this… this feeling of wanting to consume and be consumed all at once. He didn’t know that this existed. He didn’t know that _John_ existed. He didn’t know…

At last, John reaches Sherlock’s lips, opening them beneath Sherlock’s almost immediately, taking Sherlock, and offering himself too— _This is me, and I am yours, if you want._

_Sherlock wants. He wants, he wants, he wants._  

Sherlock had come here to tell him, but he _wants._

And Sherlock gives in willingly, now—winding his fingers through the short, silky strands of hair at the nape of John’s neck and tilting his head to fit their mouths together, open and eager and searching and fervid and unreserved.

John’s mouth is hot, and damp, and beautiful, and Sherlock takes it into his—tugging, nipping John’s lower lip between his teeth. Another low noise comes from John’s throat as he pulls Sherlock even closer, his hand splayed with steady pressure on the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock makes a choked, low sound as a bolt of lightning fizzles down his spine, collecting at the small of his back and cupped under John’s hand. John takes his time, tracing the inside edge of Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his (clever) tongue, and by the time he’s gotten from one corner of Sherlock’s mouth to the other, Sherlock is standing only by sheer force of willpower alone.

Every inch of their bodies is pressed into alignment, yet still it doesn’t feel close enough; John is enveloping Sherlock in his grasp, licking into his mouth and biting his lips and stroking his hair and his neck and they are breathing together, they are losing breath together, they are moving against each other with a synchronicity that Sherlock thought existed only between two instruments in a duet. 

They both moan, and the sound rumbles between them, electrocuting Sherlock again, making him grasp at John with eager, scrabbling fingers, making him lift John’s face towards Sherlock’s and making him kiss John, kiss him and kiss him until he sees legions of white stars, showering outwards behind his eyelids.

Sherlock had come here to tell him—something. What was it? Not this. 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now but John.

_“John.”_ Sherlock breaks away with a gasp. He wrenches himself out of John’s grasp and stumbles backwards and away, panting. He’s hot and dizzy, so dizzy, and he feels empty now, like something vital has been ripped out of him.

“I can’t. We can’t. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry, John.”

John stares back at him, his expression shattering. “I…”

“I wish I could explain further, John, but I just—I  don’t... I don’t know if… if—” Sherlock isn’t sure if there is any voice coming out of him at all, or if it is simply air.

John gazes back at him, speechless, and his face looks exactly how Sherlock feels, and that makes this all much worse.

Sherlock turns to leave.

John grabs one of Sherlock’s hands in both of his, clasping it and pulling with just enough force to turn Sherlock back around, swaying towards him.

“Sherlock,” he whispers again. “Can we just… talk about this, first?”

Sherlock wraps his other hand around his and John’s, and now they are standing facing each other, all four hands tied in a knot between them. 

He can’t talk about it, now. There’s no talk left in him. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock says urgently. “I’m so, so sorry, but... I’ve got to go, I need to be on my own. I need to _think.”_

Sherlock wonders if John is going to ask him not to leave. He doesn’t. This is somehow worse. He simply looks back at Sherlock with a sadness in his eyes so deep that a person could get lost in it, and squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

“Alright,” John whispers hoarsely. His hands are shaking, or maybe Sherlock’s are; there’s no difference, now. “If that’s what you need.”

It’s not what Sherlock needs. Sherlock needs John.

But this isn’t about what Sherlock needs, is it?

He pulls his hands out of John’s firmly, and John lets go without a fight, and he doesn’t say another word as Sherlock heads to the door.

Sherlock passes Molly and Irene, who gaze back at him from the kitchen, dumbfounded and silent, and he hurries to leave before either of them can convince him, again, that it’s a terrible idea.

This time, they don’t try to.

 

***

 

**[Unsent drafts—John]**

 

_I’m here if you n_

 

_Come back_

 

_You deserve to have everything you’ve ever wanted, too_

 

***

 

Sherlock’s footfalls are heavy as he drags himself up the steps to his own flat. He thinks he might be panicking. Is this what it’s like to panic? He thinks it is. This feeling that makes his heart race and makes his mind race—god, his mind. He’s got _so much_ going through his mind at the moment.

Mostly one word, but that’s more than enough to induce panic:

_John._  

John; the name that had brought him such intense joy less than twelve hours ago, the name he’d uttered against soft lips, the name he’d mumbled against the crown of soft blond hair. John, the name he’d breathed in, the name that had been his last thought before he’d fallen asleep—the name which, now, makes him feel like he’s drowning in a sea of his own thoughts, and gasping for air.

He thinks he might actually be drowning; because John had been his oxygen, and now Sherlock might be suffocating.

As Sherlock drags himself back into his flat, he takes his coat off and crosses the room slowly, every inch of his body devoid of energy. He stops by the window and bends down, lifting his violin out of its case. He pulls out the bow next, sets it on the string, and lets his fingers and bow move where they will. He does this when he needs to think. And he really needs to think, now.

With the first long, melancholy note he plays, one image, one thought enters his mind:

John needs to be happy. 

And Sherlock Holmes just doesn’t know how to make people happy. He can deduce people within an inch of their lives, but he just… can’t ever make _anyone_ happy.

Sherlock hurts people. Case in point: leaving John behind. Without any explanation. Twice.

Sherlock is rude and obnoxious and irreverent and ridiculous and unpredictable, and he hurts people. He maybe doesn’t mean to, but inevitably, he does. Why should John be any different?

And perhaps John could have been happy with Sherlock, for a time, but ultimately, and in the very near future, that all would have ended, wouldn’t it? Their hearts would have ended up even more broken. And that is the best case scenario.

But if he can at least ensure John can go to Harvard, ensure he gets what he wants… at least John will have _that._ And that’s enough for Sherlock. John’s happiness, John’s success and well-being. That’s what Sherlock wants most in the world.

Perhaps if it were anyone else, Sherlock would risk it. He’d risk getting involved and have the whirlwind romance and spend a few fantastic weeks together and then say goodbye.

But this isn’t anyone else. This is _John._ John, the most amazing person in the world. John, with his ocean blue eyes and his warm jumpers. John, whose future and feelings Sherlock isn’t willing to toy with.

He remembers something Irene had said to him over coffee that morning.

“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve done nothing but isolate yourself from others, in the apparent pursuit of staying focussed on your school work. But you push people away at all costs, and that is actually detrimental to your happiness.”

Perhaps she’d been right.

Sherlock _does_ push people away. He’s never been one for sentimental attachments—not in the slightest. And he’d never thought of himself as being at a loss for it at all.

But then again, he’d never known John. Never seen his smile or heard his laugh or tasted his lips. And John seems to defy everything, in every sense, in every piece of Sherlock’s mind.

As he plays, he hopes for clarity, but it doesn’t seem to come.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do: he plays on.

 

***

 

Sunday mornings are usually fairly boring for Mycroft Holmes. Wake up early to make breakfast. Tea. Run on the treadmill, shower, get dressed. Tea. Go over business affairs, and personal ones as well. Sometimes the matters fatefully intersect, as they had done this morning. Tea.

In the personal and professional matter of John Hamish Watson, Mycroft had made a difficult decision. One that had likely hurt his brother, though it was not Mycroft’s intention.

Being the caretaker of someone like Sherlock—someone with the tendency and capacity to care so deeply, so enormously that it’s entirely possible for him to become consumed by it—these sorts of difficult decisions are quite common.

Sherlock, his darling brother, who is a prodigy in every sense, has the potential to do great things in the world. And those great things, right now, don’t include drunken partying with a young lover, do they?

So as much as it pains Mycroft to occasionally guide his brother in the right direction, it’s simply a part of life.

Even knowing this, Mycroft’s soul feels heavy this morning, weighed down with guilt—something he would never admit to in a million years. So he decides to do what he does, sometimes, when he needs comfort and relief—something he does when he needs to find inner peace: he attends Sunday services at the nearby cathedral.

Not because he’s a religious person, by any means; but because it offers him comfort, as it did when he was a child. When his parents fought, or when Sherlock would come home upset after being bullied. He could always sit in silence and do nothing but stare up at the enormous statues and stained-glass windows, and pretend there was nothing else in the entire world.

But this particular morning, he finds that the weight in his chest has not been lifted—and before he has the chance to consider his next course of action, he is taken by surprise.

As Mycroft exits the building, out of nowhere, he feels a strong hand wrapping around his upper arm, tightening, heated even through his dress jacket, but sending a chill throughout his entire body.

“This will be _very fast,”_ growls the voice from behind him. It is somehow polite, smooth, and foreboding all at once. “We can talk about this here, in front of Jesus, and The Virgin Mary, or whomever, or we can talk about this in private. I’d strongly suggest the latter.”

Mycroft spins around to face his unexpected assailant, and finds himself staring down into darkened, furious blue eyes. He isn’t quite sure where he’d come from, this small, compact, _threatening_ young man, but he does, of course, know exactly who he is.

“Mister Watson,” Mycroft says, making his voice as oily and disinterested as he possibly can. He is actually a bit surprised at how intimidated he feels—especially given their difference in age and stature.

He needs to get away, if he can.

“I’m just on my way to meet a friend for lunch, so if you’d like to speak with me, you can set up an appointment with Margaret, my secretary, and—” 

He doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. Because somehow, John Watson is _ridiculously strong,_ and Mycroft has already been dragged away, across the lawn, and underneath a tree. As dead leaves crunch beneath the soles of Mycroft’s expensive Italian shoes, John launches right into his tirade of words.

“You told Sherlock that you would write a letter of recommendation to Harvard,” John says, his voice still very low, looking him directly in the eye. 

John Watson is positively formidable; the careful, quietly dominant set to his shoulders is enough to intimidate even the bravest of people. 

Mycroft stares back at him. “I may have expressed that I was willing to write the recommendation,” he attempts.

“On what grounds?” John demands. He tightens his hold on Mycroft’s arm, tight enough to hurt, but restrained enough to not say anything about.

“Mister Watson, the conversations between my brother and I are not really any of your business—”

John’s eyebrows fly up, and he laughs unironically. “Except this time, it absolutely _is.”_ He leans in closer, face only centimetres from Mycroft’s, and  somehow, he seems taller. “So I’m asking you again. _On._ _What. Grounds?”_

Mycroft purses his lips together, peering down the bridge of his nose as haughtily as he can. “I gave him no ultimatum, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I simply reminded him of the distracting nature of being involved in a romantic relationship.”

“You _manipulated_ him.” John’s words are the shape of a whisper but have the force of a roar, almost physically knocking Mycroft back a few paces.

“I did what needed to be done—”

Somehow, in the blink of an eye, John’s fingers are twisted in the collar of Mycroft’s suit, his face looming dangerously close. John shakes Mycroft slightly, jostling him just enough that he doesn’t dare do anything but pay attention. “How _dare_ you toy with Sherlock’s emotions like that?”

They stand there together, frozen, as John glares at Mycroft with enough heat that Mycroft can almost feel his retinas burning. So. This is the _real_ John Watson. Smart, honourable, and obviously very, very gone on Sherlock. Grudgingly, he begins to recognise the sickly respect that he’s developing for this small angry tyrant.

John breathes heavily, chest rising and falling in jagged motions under that deceptively plain jumper that he’s wearing.

“Whatever your plan is, I’ll have no part in it,” he continues darkly. “So if I get into Harvard it’s going to be _on my terms—”_ He spits out his words, and his breath is hot on Mycroft’s chin. _“—not_ by the recommendation of a person who doesn’t _deserve my respect.”_  

Mycroft’s mouth falls open in an almost idiotic manner, but John cuts him off before sound can come out of it.

“I can’t make any decisions for Sherlock,” John says, finally releasing his hold on Mycroft. “But I will not allow you to use _me_ to manipulate him.” He takes two steps back. “I suggest you do whatever it takes to right this wrong, because Sherlock is hurting deeply right now, and maddeningly, you seem to be the only person who can fix that.”

Mycroft simply continues to stare back at him. For once in his very verbose life, he finds himself utterly unable to respond.

Perhaps Mycroft had misjudged the situation.

Perhaps he had acted before thinking.

Perhaps Mycroft has underestimated John Watson, loathe as he is to admit it.

Perhaps he has underestimated the connection that John and Sherlock undoubtedly have.

Perhaps he’d best pay a visit to his brother.

But first, Mycroft does something that takes himself, and seemingly John Watson, by surprise.

“My sincerest apologies,” he says to John, not believing the words that are coming out of his mouth.

John blinks at him, nostrils flaring, and lets out a sniff of disbelief. “I’m not the one you should be apologising to,” he utters, his fists clenched at his sides.

Then, he turns to go.

“Mister Watson,” Mycroft calls after the man as he leaves. He sounds almost desperate. It’s sickening. But it’s too late to worry about that, now.

“For what it’s worth—it seems I was wrong about you,” Mycroft says. “You might just be… perhaps Sherlock wouldn’t be remiss to become attached, that is, if he were to _have_ to choose someone, I do believe you’re—” 

John freezes where he is, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Slowly, he turns around, and Mycroft sees he isn’t amused; his smile is stretched and angry. 

“This might come as a completely foreign concept to you,” John says, “but I actually don’t need your permission to love your brother.”

He stares at Mycroft for a moment, and then nods tightly. “Good day,” he adds, with an eerie calm in his voice, and he turns once again to walk off in silence.


	10. In Which Nicholas Sparks Has Absolutely Nothing on Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear John,_
> 
> _As it turns out, I have loved you from the very beginning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, thank you for your patience between updates. We have both been very busy lately, but we are so excited to finally be posting this! And thank you for hanging on for all of the angst. Things are going to be happier from here on out :)
> 
> A very, very special thank you, [Gaelicblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaelicblue), for your dedicated beta work on this chapter. And to [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb): thank you for your feedback and suggestions, and for the wonderful chapter title, of course. And as always, thank you, [KittieHill](<a), for Britpicking! 
> 
> This is the penultimate chapter of our story! We're almost there! We hope you have fallen in love with these two as much as we have. <3
> 
> ***

Eyes closed.

Sherlock sways; the music he’s drawing from his instrument is coming out in gentle swells and wails, falling slow and soft from his instrument like tears. He’s spent hours with his violin, his only solace—thinking, thinking, thinking—but a larger part of him seems only to be _feeling_. And Sherlock’s feelings will not be silenced, no matter how loudly the melody soars.

Sherlock’s got a headache. A headache from thinking and feeling and from lack of reason and lack of sleep.

He’s tried to compartmentalise everything going through his head, to sort his thoughts (truths) from his emotions (flights of fancy) and to figure out which is actually which.

But it’s not easy. Because everything that feels _real and true_ sounds like this:

_I care for John Watson._

_I care for John Watson a great deal._

_I love John Watson._

_I am in love with John Watson._

And that doesn’t help Sherlock one bit. He doesn’t know what to do with _these_ truths. He can’t measure them on a scale, or scrutinise them under a microscope, or observe their hemoglobin levels.

As Sherlock pulls his bow across the string for the final note, he slowly opens his eyes. They’re wet—a fact he tries to ignore. He scans the sitting room for something—anything—to distract himself, and his gaze alights upon the easel sitting before his armchair.

There, perched upon the wooden frame, is the unfinished portrait of John.

Clearing his throat lightly and placing his violin on the sofa, Sherlock takes a seat on the sturdy armchair in front of his easel. He looks over the supplies he still has set out. Everything is exactly where it had been a few nights ago. The night he had painted John while John sat next to him in silence. The night that John had first kissed him.

Sherlock shakes his head sharply to clear those painful (beautiful) thoughts from his mind, and then he picks up the brush and he paints.

He paints John’s portrait, although John isn’t there. Because he’s memorised every centimetre of John by now—observed and learned and catalogued every dimple and imperfection and fleck of colour in John’s eyes.

He paints John’s portrait until the sun dips below the horizon, plunging London into darkness tempered only by artificial lights, and on into the early blush of dawn.

He paints John’s portrait because he wants nothing more than to see John’s face again. He paints John’s portrait because it means, perhaps, he can miss him a little bit less.

And whenever, for a microsecond, Sherlock needs to remember the tiniest detail—the colour of a particular strand of hair or the exact location of the freckle near John’s ear—he simply closes his eyes and revisits the memories.

 

***

 

Bored. Bored, bored, bored.

It’s ten minutes into the very first class of his first year at university, and Sherlock is so bored he physically _hurts._

Already, he’s actively tuning out the shrill voice of his lecturer—supposedly some sort of “biology professor,” but all Sherlock knows about him is that he actually studied _philosophy_ at university and has an affinity for gin and tonic. Sherlock sighs as he jots down some pointless lecture notes in his notebook, not even fully aware of what he’s writing. It isn’t long before he leans his elbow onto his desk and drifts into a sort of daydream.

And then—

Then, the most irritatingly beautiful human Sherlock has ever beheld walks into the lecture a full fifteen minutes late.

Sherlock’s eyes widen as he observes the stranger: shorter than average, messy hair that’s brownish blond, rugby jacket—WATSON, it says across the back in big, blocky letters. Sherlock despises rugby, but as he appreciatively notes the way this human’s shoulders fill out the jacket, he supposes the uniform isn’t half bad.

Watson quietly mumbles an apology for his tardiness, and he turns, glancing down the row of seats that Sherlock is sitting in. As he does so, Sherlock gets a good look at Watson’s face, and nearly gasps out loud in the middle of this overcrowded classroom.

Watson’s eyes are blue (blue, blue like the sea) as they meet Sherlock’s over the heads of a few students, instantly locking together like a pair of magnets.

It’s troubling for Sherlock, the way this man demands all of his attention, as though he has any right to distract him in such a manner. Especially as there sees to be nothing remarkable about him—but for some reason, Sherlock can’t force himself to look elsewhere.

And then, Watson smiles.

And Sherlock’s elbow slips off of the edge of the desk. He nearly slams his face against his open notebook as he curses under his breath with a fluency he wasn’t previously aware he possessed.

His head is low now, hovering over his desk. He can’t bear to look back up and be humiliated. Still, he peeks a glance for a half-second as Watson strolls down the aisle and takes a seat next to a dark-haired, fair-skinned female who is blushing and gawking at him with eyes absolutely brimming with adoration.

She calls him _John_ as he places his bag next to hers.

Sherlock doesn’t try to hold back the disgruntled groan that escapes his lips at this gaudy mating ritual, but he’s shocked when Watson actually turns his head towards him, eyebrow slightly raised.

“You feeling okay, mate?” he asks with pink, perfect lips.

“Fantastic,” Sherlock mumbles, tearing his eyes away. He folds his body over his desk again, cheeks on fire, hoping to the heavens that if he curls up small enough, Watson will stop looking.

Sherlock continues to take notes. He needs to do something—anything—to focus his attention away from Watson. But he soon finds himself tuning out the lecture altogether and jotting down angry things about the irritatingly beautiful man who had just barged into his life, and he realises that might be more difficult than he’d bargained for.

 

***

 

Sherlock awakens the following morning still seated in his armchair, his paintbrush held loosely in the fingers of his right hand. The finished portrait of John smiles back at him through the harsh, bright daylight, and Sherlock finds himself smiling back at it.

He allows himself a few contented seconds to gaze at the portrait before straightening up in his chair and pushing the easel aside. He stands, walking purposely, almost habitually, over to his violin. He picks it up and continues to play the melancholy tunes he’s been playing over the past twenty-four hours.

And when he hears sharp, precise footsteps ascending his stairwell seconds into his Bach Cantata—hears the familiar rhythm of that knock, the haughty silence resting in the corridor—Sherlock knows _exactly_ who is on the other side of his front door.

The door opens, and Sherlock doesn’t even attempt to keep his brother out; he doesn’t budge an inch as Mycroft’s expensive shoes make _tap tap tapping_ noises on the floor as he crosses the room. Sherlock simply takes a moment to loathe the sound.

“Baby brother,” Mycroft says. His oily voice makes Sherlock want to destroy something.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He can’t. Keeping his back turned, he continues to pour every emotion out through his instrument, his notes becoming gradually louder and more percussive as his brother continues to stand there in a stagnant pool of arrogant silence.

“Sherlock...” Mycroft attempts again.

Sherlock finally cuts off the cantata with a harsh, sour twang. “Go away,” he spits, but his command comes out as more of a desperate, exhausted plea.

Mycroft doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Sherlock holds his position for a moment before slumping in on himself. “I _said_ go away, you _vile creature,”_ he snarls through clenched teeth—this time, accurately conveying the venom of his original attempt.

Mycroft heaves a sigh that’s somewhere between annoyance and resignation, but he still, infuriatingly, doesn’t heed Sherlock’s request. “I stopped by because I wanted to inform you that Mister Watson—’

 _"No_ ,” Sherlock growls, cutting Mycroft off before he can say another word. He can’t breathe. John’s name on Mycroft’s lips is like a punch to the gut. He is suddenly more furious than he’s ever been in his life, and he can’t move with it, can’t even _think_ . He’s furious for John, he’s furious for _himself_ ; it snaps like a white-hot line of fire down his spine.

Before he even knows what he’s going to do, he hurls his violin back onto the sofa, spinning rapidly to face Mycroft, and takes three long strides towards his brother. “You _do not get to say his name,”_ he snarls, hands clenched so tightly that he can feel the ends of his fingernails digging into the hot, damp skin of his palms.

“Pardon?” Mycroft asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Because of _you,”_ Sherlock continues, clenching his fists so tightly that his hands shake. “...I may have lost the best person that I have ever had or will _ever_ have, and you do not deserve to say his name.”  

Mycroft purses his lips into a thin line, tucking his chin down. He breaks eye contact, staring down at his feet. He looks suddenly tired, Sherlock thinks. Defeated. He isn’t his normal brand of calm and collected. And Sherlock has never, in all his twenty years, seen anything but cold callousness in his brother’s face, so he has no way of knowing for sure—but he thinks he may see a flicker of shame or guilt in Mycroft’s expression.  

Mycroft slowly lifts his eyes back towards Sherlock. “Sherlock.” He hesitates. Draws a small breath. The words are a whisper, barely more. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.” 

 

***

 

“I’m _not_ going inside, Irene.”

“Hush, darling.” Irene pushes open the door of the coffee shop with enough force that the bell above rings alarmingly. She has him in a vice-like grip around his wrist, her long nails poking at his skin, and he stumbles along beside her as she hauls him across the cafe. “My new girlfriend is here—who I really like—and because I like you too, and because you like me, and you like coffee, you are coming with me, so you had better just accept it.”

Sherlock sighs. He’s known Irene Adler for nearly a year now. He knows that it’s futile to argue with her. That never stops him from trying, however.

“Hello, love!” Irene calls out across the cafe at the redheaded woman she’s apparently disgustingly in love with, despite only having met with her a handful of times before. Sherlock grumbles something incoherent under his breath, and Irene shoots him a glare. He shuts up.

But he glares back over at her the second she looks away. And as they approach the table, he refocuses his glare at the ground. He’s frankly exhausted by Irene dragging him here and there and forcing him to _talk to people_ , and this time, he refuses to meet their eyes.

“Hello, love,” Molly chirps cheerfully as they approach. “This is my mate, John Watson. We just walked over together from history class. Hope you don’t mind the extra company.”

John Watson.

Sherlock’s eyes dart up almost of their own volition, flicking to where John Watson is seated, all 170 centimetres of him. With his royal blue eyes, and his thin, pink lips, and his awful jumper, and his horrible, infuriating, hypnotising smile. He sits with an easy sort of confidence that Sherlock envies; his elbows on the table before him, his back gently sloped, his posture open and inviting to everyone sitting there with him.

Sherlock unceremoniously plops himself down into the seat beside Irene and throws his pad down onto the table. Opening it, he begins to scrawl notes in hopes that the people at the table will take the hint and leave him alone. It doesn’t work. When Molly greets him, he grumbles again—something about her lipstick not matching her shirt—and then asks Irene what time they’re going to leave. Irene elbows him in the ribcage. Hard.

Among the busy flurry of conversation between Molly and Irene and John, Sherlock says nothing, and that’s okay. That’s how things should be. He is ignoring John. He is not thinking about John.

Sherlock is fine. Sherlock is mildly annoyed. Sherlock is irate. Sherlock is inconvenienced. Sherlock is suffering.

Sherlock peeks a quick glance up at John and instantly regrets it.

John’s eyes are fixed on him. John’s beautiful, terrible, galaxy-deep eyes are fixed on Sherlock and Sherlock alone, and he’s smiling, and—and—

“Sherlock, is it?” John asks cordially, and Sherlock’s heart stirs in the most hateful way. Ugh. “I think we’ve had a class or two together, yeah? What’re you studying?”

Sherlock sets his pencil down. He can feel his face darkening as he narrows his eyes at this annoying man. “You’re the rugby player, yes?”

John beams at him, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah. I do play rugby. I’m also studying to be a doctor.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and focuses coolly on him. He doesn’t know what will happen next, exactly, but he knows he can’t handle John Watson’s eyes on him like this. “I see. Well, there's no need to chat me up, Doctor,” he says. “It’s not as though I’m some brainless female with enormous breasts and an inferiority complex who is dying to sleep with you. You ought to save your energy and time for something you’re actually good at.”

And then, John’s whole persona changes. Gone is that easy warmth that Sherlock has been shamefully basking in. Instead, his eyes harden as he looks at Sherlock; his shoulders stiffen, his mouth presses down into a flat, straight line.

Irene and Molly stop talking and freeze for a moment, mouths hanging open, eyes wide.

“Right,” John says over the sound of Molly and Irene admonishing Sherlock in low, stunned tones. He nods once, sharply. “Guess you’re not wasting any time, then, yeah?” He stands, shoving his hands in his pockets, and takes a few steps closer to Sherlock’s chair, staring fiercely at him all the while. Sherlock has to tip his head back to look him in the eyes.

“Because being callous and rude to people is what you’re best at, isn’t it?” John asks, leaning in closer. He’s so close that Sherlock thinks he can feel the heat radiating off of John’s skin.

Sherlock’s chest feels tight and hot. He swallows, his mouth opening to respond, but he can’t seem to find any words. His ears are burning. His throat is dry and his gut is twisting.

“John…” Molly begins, and John’s serious expression turns into a cordial grin as he looks over his shoulder at her. “I’ll be at the library studying, Molls,” he says with a detached cheerfulness that’s almost terrifying. “Because we can’t all be the Dean’s brother, now, can we?” He throws a subtle glance at Sherlock before heading towards the door. “Good afternoon.”

The three silently watch him walk out.

Sherlock is seething.

Sherlock hates him, he hates him, he hates him. And he will never, ever stop making John Watson aware of this fact, for however long the man chooses to stain their university campus with his very existence.

He ignores Molly and Irene’s attempts to calm him down—instead, he waits until John is far enough away, then whisks his notebook off the table and huffs before strolling angrily out of the cafe without another word.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s heart beats thunderously in his ears as he peers into Mycroft’s tiny, snake-like eyes. “What?” he asks. “You’re—actually apologising to me?”

Mycroft curls his lip coolly and squints at Sherlock before exhaling a laborious, defeated sigh. “I’m sorry that I meddled in your affairs, baby brother. It seems I was incorrect in my assumption regarding the level of dedication in your relationship.”

Sherlock blinks at Mycroft several times. He feels off-kilter, half awake, delusional. There is a look of guilt and acquiescence in Mycroft’s eyes that Sherlock can’t begin to fathom.

 _“_ He paid me a visit yesterday,” Mycroft continues. “I thought you might want to know.”

Sherlock very nearly growls as he darts two steps closer to Mycroft, winding his fingers into his brother’s collar. He is so close to Mycroft that he can smell the scent of sweat and starch wafting off his pristine bespoke suit. “What did John say to you?” he demands under his breath.

Mycroft’s jaw clenches in what looks like rumination before answering. “He’s quite...courageous, that young man. I can see why you like him so much.”

Sherlock gives him a shake—it’s a modest one, but it’s enough for Mycroft to let out a grunt of disapproval. “Tell me what he _said,”_ Sherlock repeats in his most threatening tone.

Mycroft doesn’t attempt to pull Sherlock’s hands from him, he doesn’t back away. Instead, he looks Sherlock in the eye, and in that look, Sherlock sees something else he’s never seen emanating from the man before him: sincerity.

“He stood up to me. Suggested I apologise to you, and told me he didn’t need my letter of recommendation, nor my... _permission..._ to love you.”

_To love you._

Sherlock feels a flame licking up his spine in a surge of energy like fireworks. It’s an explosion of light—something intense and joyous going off inside his body. The sensation burns in his chest, warm and glowing and new and begging to be released. “J-” Sherlock swallows thickly, the word lodging in his throat. “John _said_...that?”

Mycroft nods. “He did.”

Sherlock shakes Mycroft again, this time more urgently. “You’re still going to write the letter, Mycroft.” He can feel his eyes widen as desperation claws at his throat. _“Tell me you’re still writing the letter.”_

Mycroft sighs lightly. “I will write the letter, _if_ that is what Mister Watson wants.”

Sherlock inhales, taking a moment to let the information seep in. He slowly releases his grip on Mycroft and takes a half-step back. _If it’s what he wants._

_Why wouldn’t he want it?_

“And I...I will no longer meddle in your personal affairs, should you choose to—” Mycroft breaks off his words, shaking his head a little bit. “Should you wish to continue seeing... _him_ … I will not let that have any bearing on my recommendation.”

Sherlock can still feel his pulse throbbing with fury at the base of his throat. Fury, and panic, and pain. He takes another step backwards. “That’s not the point, Mycroft. I don’t even know if that’s going to be...I don’t think it’s best for him to—”

“Baby brother,” Mycroft cuts him off quickly and efficiently. “Be careful not to presume to know what may be best for someone else.” He sighs and widens his eyes at him meaningfully. “You can never fully see another person’s truth. No matter how much you love them.”

Sherlock feels a deep, knotted feeling in his chest. An ache of hopelessness, an anxious swell of _what-ifs_ pulsating behind his sternum. God. _God._ Much as he loathes to admit it, he sees—he can understand how, in his brother’s very _messed up way,_ Mycroft believed he had only acted out of brotherly love for him.

He peers back at Mycroft with a look of disdain. “Do not compare yourself to me,” he says. _“You_ became involved in the affairs of a person you had no ties to, and you took advantage of our feelings in order to get what you wanted. That sort of damage cannot be swiftly undone.”

Mycroft sighs once more, something in his expression softening. “I don’t have faith in many things, much less human relationships,” he begins in a low tone, something in his expression softening. “But I have faith in the fact that he cares for you, and that he does not blame _you_ for this.”

Sherlock gapes back at him in silence.

Mycroft breaks eye contact again, his gaze wandering around the sitting room. Likely judging the decor, Sherlock thinks, or the trash, or the piles of books lying about. But his eyes stop at the coffee table in front of the sofa. Mycroft raises his eyebrows before strolling to the table and bending over to pick up one of Sherlock’s books: a published study on the Africanised honey bee. He holds the book in one hand, opens it and begins to peruse the pages. “I also have faith that the both of you can continue to be involved in another’s lives, even as you go on to pursue your own unique endeavours.” He turns the pages and peers down at the photographs in the textbook nonchalantly, a studied nonchalance that Sherlock doesn’t buy for one second.

Mycroft’s eyes dart back up to Sherlock. “Melittology,” he says.

Sherlock feels a twinge of shock, a hint of panic. Of _course._ Mycroft knows of Sherlock’s plans to go to UC Berkeley and study bees. Sherlock can feel the anxiety rising up inside him, but he pushes it back down. _No._ Sherlock refuses to let his brother bully him, to intimidate him, to make him feel terrible for _anything anymore—_

“It wouldn’t be my first choice for you, of course. After all,” Mycroft says blandly, flashing him the ghost of a smile, “...you’ve got the brain to be one of the world’s best scientists; you could help cure cancer, you could help end world hunger—and yet you’ve chosen to save the bees.”

Sherlock almost, _almost_ smiles at this assessment. He stops himself before doing so.

Mycroft snaps the book shut and sets it down. “If you wish to attend university in the United States to study melittology, baby brother, consider it done. And you do not need to worry about the cost.” He turns, dusting off the arm of his suit jacket. “And do tell _him,_ should he change his mind, that my offer to write the letter still stands.”

Sherlock attempts to regulate his breathing. He isn’t sure if he’s more shocked that Mycroft knows, or if he’s more shocked that Mycroft supports it. “Thank you,” he finally breathes.

Mycroft nods stiffly. “I suppose I should be off. I’m late for morning tea with a colleague, so—” he swans past Sherlock with a prim sniff, but turns to face him just before leaving. “I know that I swore not to meddle in your personal affairs,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “So consider this my final word on the matter. Consider talking to him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock inhales deeply, but he can feel the tiniest bubble of hope rising up within him. “Piss off, Mycroft,” he grumbles.

Mycroft sighs once again. “Of course,” he says in his usual haughty tone, and continues to walk out the door.

 

***

It’s time for third year exams, but Sherlock doesn’t truly need to study.

He could still use some peace and quiet between his classes, and although he can find the quiet for himself in the library, he cannot possibly feel any sort of peace at the moment. Because John Watson is sitting in the library at a table across the room from him, and every time Sherlock looks up, he catches John’s electric eyes with his, and then he can’t tear his own gaze away.

He can feel himself becoming jittery, jumpy with the overexposure of John Watson’s attention. What’s John thinking? Is he simply spacing out, or is he plotting the easiest way to come over here and stab Sherlock in the jugular with his pencil?

Sherlock usually doesn’t allow himself look at John for this long. Never really wants to, he corrects himself hastily. But this? This is a challenge. And Sherlock Holmes does not back away from a challenge.

If John Watson intends to murder Sherlock Holmes in the university library, then the joke is on him. Murder is something Sherlock is not afraid of. So he looks John dead in the eye and stares right back. He locks his eyes with John’s, gripping the edge of the table he’s sitting at and leaning forward a bit in his chair. There’s something magnetic about John’s eyes; he feels like he’s being pulled, like he’s being tugged and persuaded. It would be incredibly easy, he realises, just to get up and walk across the library, and crowd his body against John’s, and...

John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock, tilting his head slightly. Sherlock can feel something tightening in his chest, his heart speeding up just a tiny bit as he squints his eyes and crinkles his forehead, pinning John with his gaze.

Sherlock’s chest: rising and falling and rising and falling. Blood: pumping, pumping.

Slowly, slightly, the corner of John’s mouth lifts and he leans forward too, lips parting a little—

Suddenly, the blare of the fire alarm peals throughout the building, and Sherlock curses under his breath as he tears his eyes away.

He can hear John shouting something at him from across the room, beneath the loud ringing sound, but he can’t make out the words.

 _“What?!”_ Sherlock yells back.

John rolls his eyes, picking up his bag from the table and slinging it over his shoulder. He walks towards the exit, towards Sherlock. He pauses for a second to survey the area before facing him. “I _said,”_ he very nearly shouts, but remains admirably collected and calm while doing so. “Did you _do this?”_

Sherlock frowns. “Do what?”

John frantically gestures towards their surroundings. “I heard you like to start fires.”

Sherlock can feel his body stiffen with anger when he realises what John is implying. He strides forward until he is hovering over the shorter man, looking down at him with dark, serious eyes. “Oh, you heard, then? Yes, I did set the chemistry lab on fire.” He clenches his jaw, leaning down towards John until his face is inches from his. “So are you absolutely sure you want to anger me by asking such asinine questions, Doctor?”

They’ve never been so close before, Sherlock thinks absently as John glares up at him. The heat of John’s gaze is so tangible Sherlock thinks he may actually be on fire himself. This is John from a new angle; John with flecks of gold in his midnight blue eyes, with a furrow across his brow, with anger in the pale line of his lips. All in much greater detail than Sherlock is used to, and it knocks the breath out of him.

The force of magnetic fury radiating off of John Watson pulls Sherlock Holmes in like a riptide. He fights to keep his head up as John lifts his chin slightly, putting their faces just a breath away from each other, and he struggles to remember how to breathe.

“Fire drill, boys,” a commanding voice booms from a few feet away. “You’re gonna need to evacuate the building.”

John jumps, stepping back and away before Sherlock has even considered reacting. Sherlock feels as if he physically cannot tear his gaze away from John’s. It’s overwhelming and infuriating, the way his complicated, enthralling eyes draw Sherlock in.

Finally John turns, wrenching his eyes from Sherlock’s and marching out of the library. Sherlock moves half a beat later, gathering his things quickly; but it takes him longer than he’ll admit to get his breath back.

 

***

 

John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

He’d said it to the Dean the previous day, though he hadn’t exactly intended to. But the moment the words had fallen from his mouth, he’d known the complete truth to them.

John loves Sherlock as if it’s the most natural and yet the most exquisite thing in the world. He loves him with everything that’s in him. Wants to love him for as long as he possibly can.

It’s a love that caught him in its folds without letting him know; a love that never plans to let him go. And he isn’t only drawn to Sherlock’s talent and genius, or to the way he kisses (soft and needy and aching and desperate), though he does love those things quite a lot. He’s not in love only with the selflessness he’d shown in giving up so much just to ensure John could be happy.

John loves all of Sherlock. 

John finds that the anger he had felt the day before has begun to settle into something like wistfulness, and now instead of burning with the short-lasting fuse of fury, there’s a dull, bone-deep ache simmering within him.

John understands why Sherlock had left. And he knows that it was out of regard for him, but he only wishes Sherlock could know—know that he wants to hold Sherlock in his arms. Wants to smooth his curls down around his face and whisper into his ear that although the future is scary, he can’t imagine a future without him.

As he climbs the stairway to his flat, he trudges, feeling heavy, feeling slow. He fishes his key from his coat pocket, and he very nearly trips over an object at his doorstep.

Something that definitely had not been there when he’d left for rugby practice. Something flat and rectangular, wrapped in tissue paper, propped up against his front door. A package of some kind.

John stares at it for a few moments before kneels down for a closer look. He reaches out to touch the tissue paper, slowly beginning to peel away the layers—

“Oh,” he gasps softly as he sees what lies beneath, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as he stares down. “Oh, _Sherlock.”_

  
***

 

“Shall we start the portrait?” Sherlock asks tentatively, watching John nervously out of the corner of  his eye. He’s out of his element. He doesn’t ever seem to have the right words around John, forever tripping and stumbling over sentences, and it seems imperative that he doesn’t mess things up tonight.

Sherlock doesn’t know it yet: but tonight, for the first time, John Watson will kiss Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes will kiss him back.

John swallows, his throat bobbing over the collar of his jumper; Sherlock is outright staring now.

“Yeah,” John says distractedly, rubbing his palms over his thighs and nodding a bit. John wants to say more—it’s clear from the way he glances sideways at Sherlock, not quite looking at him head on. But for some reason, he doesn’t.

Sherlock dips the paint brush down onto the palette, mixing every shade of blue he can find until he can replicate the exact colour of John’s eyes. Painting John Watson comes effortlessly, naturally, easily for Sherlock. He nearly shivers with the thrill and the enormity of it, painting him masterfully, as if he has been studying him closely for years. Perhaps he has.

The silence lays heavily around them as Sherlock paints, but beneath that silence, the room is filled with a crackling energy that Sherlock can’t describe. It’s as if the beauty that radiates from John Watson is flowing outwards, unfiltered. And it’s overwhelming. It’s inspiring.

It feels like no time has passed at all when a knock comes at the door, and Sherlock flinches in surprise as the noise startles him from his focus. He looks over at John with a small reassuring smile. John is watching him with clear, steady eyes. “The food I ordered is here,” he says.

 

***

 

John urgently unwraps the package in front of his doorstep, heart in his throat as he grips the edges of the pale yellow tissue paper and tears. Sherlock had been here. Sherlock had been _here,_ at John’s flat, and he had dropped off a package, and John had missed him, God, he’d—

John pulls, tugs, rips until the entire thing is exposed to the air and the light and to John’s eyes, and John  _stares_.

The image of his own face looks back at him.

It’s the portrait of John that Sherlock had painted.

It’s magnificent.

In the portrait, John seems completely, utterly content—entirely happy—the light glinting in his irises, his cheeks round with that suggestion of a smile. The look captured on his face—it’s as if he had been watching someone he couldn’t tear his gaze from. It’s the way he stares at Sherlock.

Because he had been. But Sherlock hadn’t finished the painting that night.

John’s stomach flips at the thought of Sherlock painting his face from memory, of knowing him so well that he doesn’t even need to look at John to be able to put his face onto canvas.

“Sherlock,” John whispers as he runs his fingertips over the delicate brushstrokes of the painting. It’s then that he notices something else peeking out from behind the canvas, and he trails his fingers along the surface of the painting as he reaches to grab it.

It’s a notebook.

Seemingly plain, nothing spectacular about it. The corners are bent, the pages are tattered and folded and a little bit stained in various places. He’s sure he’s meant to open it, though, so he does.

Inside the front cover, he finds a note in Sherlock’s extravagant handwriting:

 

_Dear John,_

_As it turns out, I have loved you from the very beginning._

_Within this notebook, which I have carried around with me since our first day at university, you will find documented evidence of this truth._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

John feels like he’s gotten the air knocked from him as he reads—dizzy and breathless and filled with starlight—and he has to look over the words a few times before their meaning truly sinks in.

Sherlock loves him, too.

John has no idea what to expect to find in the notebook he holds, but he can feel the anticipation bubbling within him, swelling just as much as the love in his heart He pays no attention to the tears brimming in his eyes as he frantically thumbs through the pages, curious to see the evidence Sherlock spoke of.

It’s mostly gibberish scrawled here, it seems. Random observations of people interspersed with notes from lectures and angry rants, in true Sherlock fashion, and—

Then he sees it. Written within the margins of the notes for what appears to be their first biology course together. He focuses on the words scrawled in dark, heavy pencil strokes:

 

_John Watson._

_Rugby player. Walked into the room a moment ago. His eyes are bluer than sapphires. His hair is windblown and sandy and begs to be touched; his smile is so brilliant it nearly hurts to look at. And he’s just taken a seat next to me, and it is infuriating that I cannot take my EYES off of him._

_What is the point of rugby, anyway?_

_And exactly how many different shades of blue are there?_

_Surely it is abnormal to have such an alarming reaction to a person’s smile._

_He is beautiful._

_I have decided that I hate him._

 

John remembers it as clearly as if it were yesterday; the first time they had laid eyes on one another. The way Sherlock had looked at him, the way his own stomach had stirred when seeing Sherlock, the way he had somehow simply _known_ that this person was meant to be in his life.

He’d never guessed Sherlock felt the same way.

John takes a deep breath and continues to flip through the battered pages. A note from their second year—

 

_John Watson is here_

_Why why why why why did Irene drag me to this STUPID COFFEE SHOP where the coffee is weak so I can listen to these two women talk about popular culture and shades of nail polish and JOHN Watson IS HERE, with his annoying beautiful smile and his soft jumper and he won’t stop looking at me and_

_i_

_hate_

_him_

_And John hates me, too._

_He’s just made that very clear by insulting me and storming out of the coffee shop._

_I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him god I hate him I hate him I hate him why can’t I stop thinking about him?_

_He’s always on my mind and it’s maddening, I need to get out of here_

 

John laughs softly, the memory warming him, although on that particular day he had felt quite a different reaction. Sherlock’s always been able to set him off quite quickly—quicker than anyone else can, and in more ways than one. And God, Sherlock had been an absolute pompous dickhead in the cafe, but he’d also been so _beautiful and honest and alluring and gorgeous_ and really, John hadn’t been much nicer himself.

He flips through a few more pages, and he bursts out laughing as he sees the next note.

 

_I think that if the fire alarm hadn’t gone off at the library today, something may have happened between John Watson and me. Something big._

_If he hadn’t killed me first._

 

John laughs again, the ache in his chest one of incredible fondness now. Yeah, he was close to shutting Sherlock up _somehow,_ that day in the library. Whether by murder or simply by covering Sherlock’s big, loud mouth with his own he isn’t sure, but both options had seemed equally likely.

John continues to turn pages, continues to read endless scrawlings of Sherlock ranting about John in ways that seem furious and heartfelt and passionate—in ways that feel a lot like love.

And indeed, in the end, the final note John finds in the notebook is all the confirmation he needs.  

 

_I kissed John Watson tonight._

_I kissed him._

_I was only meant to paint him, but I kissed him._

_It was more phenomenal than I could have ever imagined, and the moment that John’s lips touched mine, I became willing to sacrifice anything and everything for this man._

_I am terrified, but I know I never want to stop kissing him._

 

The happiness John feels blooms into a soft melancholy in his sternum, and the moisture welling in his eyes finally spills over onto his cheeks. “Sherlock,” he whispers softly as he runs his fingers over the pages of the notebook.

He closes the notebook slowly and holds it to his chest. Right over his heart—the heart that loves Sherlock so much, the heart that would do anything for him, too. The one that misses him and wishes more than anything he was just here so John could tell him. Eyes closed tightly, he focuses on simply breathing, on the memories, on not breaking apart right there on his doorstep.

“John.”

John’s heart skips a beat and he stops breathing completely. The voice behind him is low, rumbling, and it caresses John’s ears like satin, and _oh_ —he thought he might never hear that voice say his name again. He climbs to his feet as quickly as he can, ungraceful and wild in his movements, and turns to face the staircase.

Sherlock—Sherlock Sherlock _Sherlock_ —Sherlock is there, meeting John’s gaze head on.

He’s almost like an apparition, John thinks dazedly. Lord, he looks more beautiful than he’s ever looked before. His expression is vulnerable, his blue irises intensely bright against the redness of his tired, bloodshot eyes, and his hair is mussed as though he hasn’t slept in days. He is trembling slightly—his hands, his lips, the rhythm of his inhalations—and John barely restrains himself from darting forward, from gathering Sherlock into his arms and holding him tight against his chest.

Instead, he only swallows, takes a few steps forward, and tries to assure himself this isn’t a dream.

The physical distance between John and Sherlock has never felt so vast.

One more step. It echoes. “Sherlock.” John smiles at him, he _beams_ at him, the expression completely out of his own control. “Why are you—hi. Hi, Sherlock.” He finds his own voice trembling, now, and takes a steadying breath. “The portrait you painted, it’s—It’s amazing.”

Sherlock looks absurdly small and vulnerable standing here in John’s shadowed stairwell. _“You’re_ amazing,” he breathes, and then his eyes widen and he shakes his head sharply. “I mean… I mean, it was so easy to...” Sherlock breaks off abruptly, voice shaking, and takes a step forward too, like he can’t help himself. “I see you read the notebook, as well.”

“Yes,” John says softly, because he doesn’t want to shatter the quiet stillness of this moment, or scare Sherlock away again. He steps closer, closer, closer, and Sherlock moves to meet him with stilted, breathless steps.

Sherlock’s hands are lifted just barely at his sides, reaching so slightly towards John that he doubts Sherlock even notices it himself. He halts. His hands fall. His lips part. “John. Even then—even then, you were on my mind. All of the time.” His whisper breaks with a hint of voice, a crack of emotion that makes John’s heart throb. “I was an idiot to think I hated you, to think we were were meant to be _bitter enemies._ I believe I know better, now.”

John can’t inhale past the lump that forms in his throat; the corners of his eyes burn with moisture. He can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t move. He’s dizzy with the love that’s rising up inside of him.

“I love you,” Sherlock continues almost frantically. “I love you in a way that I didn’t know a person could love someone; it’s like breathing, or bleeding, or…” he breaks off again with a surge of emotion, voice wobbly and thin. He’s breathless. “It’s my heart beating in my chest to a rhythm that’s both strange and familiar, and fills me up until I don’t think I can possibly contain any more.”

“God, _Sherlock_ ,” John whispers raggedly, and then they fall into each other, hands and hearts and bodies meeting. John curls his arms around Sherlock and bears him backwards, slotting their mouths together as he slides a hand over the back of his head and presses him against the cold wall of the stairwell.   

Sherlock makes a desperate noise and grabs John, pulling him close with a hand on the collar of his jacket and one on his waist. The noise quickly turns to a hum of pleasure as John parts Sherlock’s lips and kisses him, tilts his head and kisses him, drinks him in and _kisses him_.

With a tiny, jubilant gasp, Sherlock pulls his mouth from John’s and immediately dives for John’s neck and kisses him there, open-mouthed, warm and long and rough. He’s shaking, he’s grasping the collar of John’s jumper and holding on tight. His curls feel like precious silk on John’s skin, and John aches with the beautiful familiarity of it.

Sherlock leans bonelessly into John, lets John take his weight, and it’s such a surrender of trust that John almost breaks down right where he stands.“When I love someone such as I love you,” Sherlock murmurs, the fervency in his voice still apparent. “I love fiercely and without reason, and when I knew that I could give you what you wanted by leaving, I didn’t think of the negative consequences. Never thought about how you might actually want me in your life, your future—”

“I do,” John interrupts. His heart beats in time with the words on his tongue, spilling out quick and true. “Want you. In my life. You know. I want to keep you, Sherlock.” He strokes his fingers along the nape of Sherlock’s neck, smiling into his curls as he feels Sherlock shiver against him. “I love you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the top of Sherlock’s head, barely able to hear anything over the pounding of his heart. “I think I always have, too, you know. And I understand why you did what you did, but you can’t do that again, Sherlock. You’ve got to let me know when you’re having doubts and fears. Promise me that.”

Sherlock’s inhale is harsh and rough as he pulls back, far enough away to look John in the face. “I promise,” he exhales.

John smooths Sherlock’s riotous curls against the side of his face, tucking one back behind his ear, imbuing his look with as much love as he can.

Sherlock catches John’s wrist in one hand, kisses John’s knuckles, John’s palm, John’s inner arm with soft, dry lips. “I am inexperienced with love, and I—I worry about hurting you. I simply want you to be happy, to have everything, John,” he says. “I want everything for you that you ever dreamed of.”  

John smiles softly at him, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands and running his thumb gently along the ridge of one cheekbone. “I can’t have everything I want unless I have you, too,” he says. “And there may be some trials along the way, and there may be pain. But it’s worth it. Because I love you, and I will be here for you. No matter what the future holds, no matter what the distance between us may be, we will figure it out, you and me.”

Sherlock is gazing back at him in that helpless, besotted way that John has only ever caught him using out of the corner of his eye. Uninhibited. “I do know that now,” he says softly, his lovely, opalescent eyes shifting like underwater reflections across John’s skin. “But I don’t simply _know,_ John. I _feel_ it.” He wraps his arms around John and folds their bodies together, his face sinking into John’s shoulder with such an unreserved genuineness that it burns white and hot. “It took me awhile to get there, but I did,” he mumbles. “ _We_ got there, didn’t we, John? Together.”

“Yeah.” John smiles, leaning in to kiss the side of Sherlock’s head gently. Sherlock hums against him, and John smiles. “Yeah, Sherlock. We absolutely did.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Complementary Colours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717681) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15389073) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [Fanart for Complementary Colours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15500538) by [iminshockivegotablanket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iminshockivegotablanket/pseuds/iminshockivegotablanket)
  * [Complementary Colours — [Cover]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15639246) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [[Cover] Complementary Colours by FinAmour and unicornpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17225414) by [Picpicpic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Picpicpic/pseuds/Picpicpic)




End file.
